


Renatus

by frozenbeans



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Amortentia, Character Development, Dark, Dark Harry, Dark Hermione, Death, Death Eaters, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Horcrux Lore, Horcruxes, Language, Legilimency, Magical Creatures, Manipulation, Moral Ambiguity, Muggle-born hate, Multi, Occlumency, Order of the Phoenix - Freeform, Professor Tom Riddle, Ron's ghastly dress-robes, Triwizard Tournament, Unbreakable Vow, Unforgiveable Curses - Freeform, Violence, Yule Ball
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-05-06 20:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 166,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14655447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozenbeans/pseuds/frozenbeans
Summary: There is only one person Lord Voldemort trusts to guide Harry Potter through the Triwizard Tournament and into his Muggle father's graveyard at the opportune moment.It is not Barty Crouch Junior.“His name is Professor Riddle, and at least for now, no matter who you ask, nobody knows anything more. Professor Riddle, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome!
> 
> So, this fic is an absolute mess of an AU. It is set in the golden trio’s sixth year at Hogwarts, despite featuring the Triwizard Tournament. That’s because while the Tournament is at the heart of the plot, I figured it would be more appropriate if Harry, Ron and Hermionie were all a little older. To make this work, I’ve made some pretty wild changes to the HP canonical history. 
> 
> This a world in which most of the Voldemort-related drama that transpires from Chamber of Secrets to Order of the Phoenix has been erased. Specifically, while all the events of Philosophers Stone and Prisoner of Azkaban still happened in the history of this fic, Tom Riddle’s diary never found its way into Ginny Weasley’s hands, and the Chamber of Secrets was never opened. Lockhart still taught DADA, however, and was still outed as a fraud through his general incompetence. The Triwizard Tournament never happened in their fourth year, and as such, there was no Barty Crouch Jr dressed up as Mad Eye Moody at Hogwarts, and no attempt by Voldemort to return. Fifth year was similarly quiet, and, in this version of events, there was no Umbridge. Instead, Professor Lupin took them through the third, fourth, and fifth years of Hogwarts as DADA teacher. Essentially, it’s been a quiet few years at Hogwarts. 
> 
> At this point, this fic is just a stream of consciousness trying to answer the question, if Voldemort had sent his younger self to Hogwarts instead of Barty Crouch Jr, how might things have played out differently? It'll mostly be told from Hermionie pov, because she's excellent and because I always thought the dynamic between Riddle and Hermionie would be particularly interesting because of their shared academic interests. I've got ideas about a long-term plot, and explanations for all the stuff that seem nonsensical at this stage, like the fact that Dumbledore literally hired Tom Riddle despite definitely knowing who he is, but I just wanted to see if it's the kind of thing that people would enjoy reading at this point! If I do continue, I'll update tags and pairings as needed. 
> 
> I’m super new to writing, so I would really appreciate any feedback you may have! I hope you’re able to enjoy this despite the liberties I’ve taken with the plot. 
> 
> Oh, also, I do not own the world or characters explored in this fic, and definitely don't intend to give the impression that I do!

* * *

 

The sky is dark and howling when the Professor arrives at Hogwarts, too late for the welcome speeches and choir and just in time for pudding. The golden doors of the Great Hall announce his arrival with a rude slam, and the cheerful hum of small talk and clinking glasses across the crowded House tables comes to an abrupt end. It is not the first time dinner in the Great Hall has been interrupted. The first time, it had spelled awful news: Professor Quirrell, a parasitic Dark Lord hidden under the fabric of his turbin, screaming something about a troll in the dungeon before he lost consciousness, so she had been told. It had meant _something_. So Hermione Granger sets down her spoon and watches.

He is awfully young, the man at the door. Enough to be a seventh year, even. But he isn’t in robes. There’s no Gryffindor red or Slytherin emerald on him, only a buttoned up white tunic and a coat that chases his ankles as he walks towards Professor Dumbledore and the staff table, slowly, as though he has all the time in the world. As though he has arrived precisely when he meant to. He is rather attractive, Hermione supposes. He is all sharp features and dark eyes, and the kind of meticulously groomed hair that Hermione detests and envies in equal measure. Not that she will think charitably towards him because of the way he looks. Gilderoy Lockhart, the handsome fraud, has guarded Hermione against equating looks with virtue. At the giggles and the pink cheeks and whispers that follow the wizard as he enters the Hall, Hermione wonders if her peers have already forgotten.

It is curious. Because Ron, who never stops eating, not for anything, freezes with a mouthful of butterbeer and kicks her legs under the table, asking her who the hell that man is. Curious because Harry’s middle finger is tracing over his scar again, lightly, like he doesn’t mean to, but she notices. Curious because when he reaches Dumbledore, and they shake hands, and the Headmaster tells them all that this is the new Defence Against the Dark Against Teacher, set to replace Professor Lupin while he is away for the year, that he went to Ilvermony, Hogwart’s American counterpart, he thanks Dumbledore in an unmistakably _British_ accent.

His name is Professor Riddle, and at least for now, no matter who you ask, nobody knows anything more. Professor Riddle, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher.

Of course, after him comes the news of the Goblet of Fire- the Triwizard Tournament, the new rules, the danger, the glory. Then comes talk of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students who are to join them in the castle. Dumbledore’s announcements are met with groans and gasps, and Professor Riddle becomes a new and curious thing in a room full of new and curious things. When Harry, Ron, and Hermione retire to the Common Room, it is to talk about the Tournament; the Death Eaters at the World Cup in the summer, the Dark Mark in the sky, the curious man who put it there, whose face Harry had not seen. Professor Riddle slips from their thoughts as easily as he had occupied them.

 

* * *

 

 

The Bulgarians arrive three hours after the French, which is just as well. The whole castle is alive with excitement, everybody staring after the pretty girls in faded blue, with eyes to match and perfect, silver hair. Durmstrang know how to make an entrance as well, it seems. Fire, staffs, backflips- Hermione feels as though she is watching a circus performance exclusively featuring moody European men. Of course, in a class all of his own, there is Viktor Krum, the star from the summer’s Quidditch World Cup. Hermione saw him, tearing through the air in that colossal stadium, like he belonged there; in the air, chasing after something impossibly precious and small. Looking at him now, Hermione can scarcely believe he is still a student. His shoulders are too broad; his eyes too dark, too focused, like his mind is somewhere else. She wonders for a moment what that would be like, to be so young, with all the expectations of an entire wizarding nation resting on you, all that hope, all that pride- would you feel free, or suffocated? Of course, she only need glance at the boy next to her, glasses foggy from the cold and scar sticking out like a sore thumb on his forehead, to know the answer.

“Krum!” Ron is shouting, as delirious as he had been at the Cup. “It’s really him! Blimey, Harry.”

“Amazing,” Harry agrees, shooting Hermione an amused look. “Isn’t it, Hermione?”

“I can hardly contain myself,” she says, seriously as she can manage, but Ron doesn’t seem to care for the sarcasm.

“Do you reckon he’ll enter the Cup? That’s got to be why he’s here,” he says to nobody in particular, grabbing Dean Thomas by the shoulders to propel himself forward in the crowd surrounding Krum, it seems, for autographs. “My god, what if there’s a flying challenge? The other champions won’t stand a chance. Ha!”

“Honestly, Hermione,” Harry says, hanging back from the group and ducking to dodge others who were running in to join it. They’re just about the only two who are hanging back, aside from Fred and George, falling over themselves laughing down the hall at the sight of their brother. “Has Hogwarts gone mad, or have I?”

“If they’re really reinstating the Tournament, they must be mad,” she sighs. “I read about it, you know. It was cancelled for a reason. People die in this Tournament, Harry. I do hope they know what they’re doing.”

“It does seem a bit nuts,” Harry admits. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure as hell not putting my hand up for that one. But it’s Dumbledore, isn’t it? He always knows what he’s doing.”

“Yes,” she says tersely. “Though how anyone’s going to study when there’s an autograph line of first years and Ronald blocking the way to the library all semester I’ve no idea.” She frowns at Ron and his company for a moment before tugging Harry’s arm. “Come on, if we go back to the Common Room now I’ll have time to help you with the Transfiguration homework.”

“There was Transfiguration homework?” Harry says, and then he laughs, following her down the hall and away from the rest of the school. “What would I do without you, ‘Mionie?”

Hermione shakes her head in response, pleased despite herself.

“Say, we didn’t have to do anything to prepare for Defence Against the Dark Arts tomorrow, did we?” Harry says suddenly. “I don’t know what this new Professor’s going to be like, and I’d rather not start out on a detention.”

“There wasn’t anything,” Hermione pauses. “I mean, I’ve read the first few chapters of Dark Spell for good measure, but Professor Riddle hasn’t prescribed any work.”

“Maybe he won’t be so bad after all. Do you reckon he’ll be fine with us showing up late? Doesn’t seem like a prompt guy, does he?”

“I have no idea what he’ll be like,” Hermione says carefully.

“Well,” Harry says cheerfully, “as long as Voldemort isn’t secretly living in a hole in his shoe, I’m happy with whatever he’s like." 

* * *

 

“He’s beautiful,” Paravati is saying- sitting front of the class with Hermione for the first time since Lockhart’s first lesson. “I mean, Professor Riddle is properly gorgeous. Didn’t you see his face?”

Her eyes are darting nervously from the door to the desk in front of the class. Professor Riddle’s chair is empty. There are still five minutes before class officially begins, of course. The presence of the entire class this early is accounted for by a surplus of excitement, nerves, and curiosity about the new teacher. They’re all Hogwarts students, for now. The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students take their lessons separately, much to the dismay of Ron, who announced this morning that he has fallen in love with a beautiful French girl called Fleur who made accidental eye contact with him over breakfast.

“Not saying I swing that way,” Seamus says with a shrug, “but I’m secure enough in myself to admit I’d make an exception for him, know what I mean fellas?”

Harry chuckles at that.

“Did you hear his voice, too?” It’s Lavender Brown, dreamy as ever. “I’d pay good galleons to hear him read the textbook front to back.”

Ron- behind her, for he and Harry have refused to sit at the front since first year- stifle a snort, and Lavender turns to him, brows furrowed.

“Have you got a cold?” She is genuinely asking, Hermione realises, unable to see what it is that Ron might be snorting at.

“No.” Ron seems delighted by her confusion.

“Oh,” Lavender says, turning back to face Parvati and Hermione. “Anyway, I know it’s ages away, but do you think teachers are allowed to come to the Yule Ball? You know, the Ball that they always had whenever there was a Triwizard Tournament- my mum told me- do you think Professor Riddle would come?”

“With you?” Parvati says, shocked. “Lavender!”

“I don’t see why not,” Lavender says hotly. “We’re not children. And besides, he looks so young.”

“He’s probably married,” Padma says gloomily. “Or engaged.”

“Don’t sound so glum, Patil,” Malfoy remarks from the back. “As if he’d dally with the likes of you anyway. He’s an educated man, after all.”

The boys around him snicker, and as much as Lavender’s antics exasperate Hermione, she feels a swell of anger towards Malfoy at that.

"Shut up, Malfoy,” she hisses.

"Ah, Granger," Malfoy drawls, leaning back in his chair. "Good to see you too. I see the holidays did nothing to dislodge the stick up your arse." 

"Lay off Malfoy," Harry says.

“Wife or not, he’ll want to go to the Ball with me,” Lavender says heatedly, oblivious to the change in topic. 

“Blimey,” Ron murmurs, unable to stop himself. He bursts out laughing, and Harry is tight-lipped beside him, struggling not to join in. Lavender turns back to the two boys, seething now.

“Can I help you, Ronald?” She says coldly. Ron, whose face is red from chuckling, just shakes his head.

“I think,” Hermione says, surprising herself, “Ronald might be laughing because he’s remembering the other Professors we’ve had the pleasure of learning under in this classroom. Do you remember Professor Quirrell? Too bogged down in detail to ever teach us to master the basics, never-mind the Dark Wizard clinging to the back of his head? And Professor Lockhart, the fraud who left Harry, Ron and me to deal with Cornish Pixies that he let loose while he hid in his office?”

“Hermione,” Harry interrupts, but she keeps going.

“Professor Lupin was lovely, but his lessons were unstructured… maybe Ronald is laughing because after everything that we’ve had to deal with in this classroom it seems ridiculous that we should all be wondering about whether Professor Riddle is spoken for when we should be hoping he knows how to teach, for Merlin’s sake!” Hermione is out of breath when she finishes, and Lavender is just staring at her, jaw dropped. Every is staring at her, silent, and a little afraid. Ron looks delighted, like he’s about to set off laughing again and is trying very hard not to. And Harry is giving her a sharp look, eyebrows up, like a warning. And then she learns why.

“Hope no longer, Miss-?”

Oh.

_Oh._

Professor Riddle.

* * *

 

Lavender was not wrong, his voice is rather pleasant. Still, Hermione’s heart sinks at the sound of it. It isn’t her that everyone is ogling at after all. She wonders how long he has been standing there, leaning against his desk with his arms folded across his chest, eyebrows raised and mouth curled into a smile that she can’t read.

“Granger, Sir,” she says quickly. The faster she replies, she reasons, the faster this will be over.

“Miss Granger,” he says her name slowly, evidently not sharing in her eagerness to get this whole embarrassing interaction out of the way. He is wearing a white button up shirt under black robes, as he had that first night. He really could be a student, she decides.

“I intended to discern the nature of your… disturbed education in this subject thus far this morning. Your summary of Professors past has been most enlightening, Miss Granger. It won’t do to dwell on them though. From now onwards you will have the pleasure of learning under me,” he says delicately. He is still looking at her. She wishes that he would stop.

“Is it true you were top of your class in Ilvermorny, Professor?” It’s Lavender, rather boldly piping up. Professor Riddle’s eyes are on hers a beat longer before, mercifully, they flit across to Lavender.

“If I wasn't I would hardly be qualified to teach you, would I?”

Lavender laughs lightly. “Oh, no, of course not, silly of me.”

“Not at all,” Professor Riddle smiles tightly, in a way that very much suggests that, contrary to his words, yes, yes it was.

“How come Ilvermorny, if you’re British?” Dean calls out.

Professor Riddle barely affords him a glance. “It was the better choice at the time. Now, if we are quite done with the interview,” Professor Riddle’s hand slips into his pocket. When it emerges, Hermione catches a glimpse of a dark, polished wand, no bumps, no rough edges. She wonders what core gives it power. Dragon heartstring? Yes, he seems like the dragon heartstring kind. “This class is called Defence against the Dark Arts. It is futile to pretend to understand what that means until you understand the magic that is at the heart of the Dark Side. The Unforgiveables.” He turns his wand over in his hands absent-mindedly while he speaks. “So- who can tell me how many Unforgiveable Curses there are?”

Hermione doesn’t really mean to put her hand up anymore. These days it just finds itself in the sky, almost of its own accord. To her annoyance, and embarrassment, Professor Riddle surveys the room before coming back to her hand- the only one in the class that is in the air.

“Are you going to wave your arm at me all lesson Miss Granger, or are you going to answer the question?” he says coolly, and Hermione, whose mouth is already half-open, freezes for a moment, taken aback because, well, that was _rude_ , wasn’t it?

Somewhere close to the back of the room, she can hear the familiar sniggering of Draco Malfoy and his posse. Hermione goes pink.

“There are three Unforgiveable Curses recognised under Merlin’s Matrix,” she says briskly, not looking at the young Professor. “The use of any one of them incurs an automatic sentence to Azkaban- even a Dementor’s Kiss.”

“Marvellous,” Professor Riddle says, and she decides that she does not like the way he says it. There is a patronising edge to his words that reminds her of the way Professor Snape looks when, time and time again, she is the only one able to answer his questions. Like she is some monkey doing pretend magic tricks.

“Longbottom, is it?” Professor Riddle says, approaching Neville’s slumped frame where he sits beside Ron. “Can you give me the name of one of those curses?”

Neville jolts. He looked white as a sheet, and, understandably, confused. Most Professors have learned not to ask him things anymore; unless of course, they are deliberately looking to be cruel. Professor Riddle wasn’t to know.

“I, um,” Neville stammers.

“Come now, Longbottom. I haven’t got all day, and nor have your classmates,” Riddle’s words are accompanied with a thin smile.

“I know one,” Neville says. God, he does look awful. Too awful. Not ‘I don’t know the answer’ awful. This is something different. Hermione hesitates, trying to catch the boy’s eye, but he won’t look at her- or anyone, for that matter. “The, uh. The Cruciatus Curse.” He says it matter-of-factly, and it sounds wrong. Hermione supposes that is rather the point of Unforgiveable Curses. That they sound _wrong_ , that they describe something terribly wrong.

“Ah. Yes. The Cruciatus Curse. The root of the word is Latin, of course. It is an ancient term used to describe torture. Torture, as we know, is excruciating, unbearable pain. Each Unforgiveable Curse is a weapon, and the Cruciatus Curse is an extraordinarily effective one. The question is, why?”

Hermione’s hand is in the air again, but so is another’s. Hermione, Ron and Harry promptly turn and gape as Draco Malfoy clears his throat and begins to speak.

“Please, Sir,” he says, playing polite for the new Professor, “The Cruciatus Curse works because it’s so painful, people will do whatever you want them to do to get you to stop the Curse.”

“That is the general argument in favour, yes,” Professor Riddle inclines his head. “Ten points to Slytherin, Mr-?”

“Malfoy, Sir,” Draco says proudly. "Draco Malfoy."

Harry and Ron roll their eyes.

“Ah,” Professor Riddle nods, “Quite so. What would you say to that, Longbottom?”

He is standing in front of Neville’s desk now, and the room, restless as it had been when class began, is too still now, too quiet. “Well? You knew the curse Mr Longbottom, so tell me, do you think people will do whatever you want them to do to get you to stop cursing them? Do you think there are any unwanted side effects? Opposing arguments?” he lowers his face, closer to Neville’s. Neville looks rather ill and is staring at his shoes. “Any words at all?" There is a beat, a moment, and then he lowers his voice, and it is positively dripping with condescension. "Can you tell me _anything_ , Longbottom?”

The Slytherins are laughing now.

“The Cruciatus Curse is a coward’s curse.” Hermione can’t help herself. It’s a mix of pride in knowing the answer, and the sick feeling she gets at the pit of her stomach as some small, nagging part of her wonders why lovely, clueless Neville Longbottom knows about the Cruciatus Curse, why he is rapidly turning from white to green, why he never told anybody why he lives with his Nan, that compels her to speak.

Professor Riddle rises slowly, turning towards Hermione with an unreadable look on his face.

Harry shoots her a look, a warning. _It’s not worth it,_ it says. But, half scared of the silence, she goes on.

“I mean, they are all cowardly, really, the Unforgiveables- but _crucio_ is the most so. And it isn’t effective at doing anything other than causing pain. If the objective is bigger than that, say, retrieving information, or gaining a servant, as Malfoy implied, then the Cruciatus Curse is terribly variable. Besides, nowadays Aurors undergo special training to endure the Curse long enough that they won’t give any information before they’re driven mad by the Curse, at which point they become useless to the curser in any case. If you look at when the Cruciatus Curse has been used in history, and by whom, you see that Dark witches or wizards with specific ambitions scarcely used _Crucio_. When they did, it was pointless and barbaric. Grindelwald hardly ever used it, though some of his followers did, against Muggles, because they hated them and wanted them to suffer. It is most commonly used by psychopaths and sociopaths, those who take some perverse sort of pleasure in another’s pain. Cowards…Professor.”

Professor Riddle is at her desk now. Well, over it, really. His hands are resting on the wooden table-top on either side of her own, arms spread wide as he leans over her, and he is close enough that she catches a waft of fresh parchment, of ink, of tea. His eyes are brighter up close, she thinks, and for a moment, a wonderful moment, she thinks he even looks a bit impressed as he appraises her. But the words of commendation never come. Nor, she is relieved to note, do words of anger or dismissal. She is holding her breath, they all are, awaiting the new Professor’s response, when the bird comes flying through an open window in the back, flapping around and making an awful fuss-

“ _Imperio_.”

* * *

 

Hermione gasps with the rest of the room. It’s the Imperius Curse, one of the Unforgiveables. She has read about it, of course, knows all about what it has done, what it could do, but she never thought she might hear it, let alone in a classroom. She doesn’t know when he had drawn his wand, but it is pointed squarely at the bird, frozen in the air with its beak half-open, wings spread out, feet curled. It looks like a Muggle painting; a sculpture of a bird in flight. It looks like art. It looks _dead_ , though its eyes are moving still, darting around frantically. If it could, Hermione imagines it would be screaming.

It begins to drift across the room, towards Riddle, towards Hermione, though he is not saying anything out loud. Hermione steals a glance at her Professor, intrigued. Of course, he was the top of his class, it makes sense that he is highly competent in non-verbal magic. The bird comes to a halt hovering above Hermione’s desk, and Riddle is positively staring at it, examining its frozen wings, as though admiring his work.

“The Imperius Curse, students. As you may have gathered, this spell has the effect of bewitching the mind of your subject. Perform it correctly, and the subject will take whatever action you desire them to. A cleaner, safer alternative way to ensure that one does your bidding. This spell existed only in the Restricted Sections of ancient libraries, in old languages, until the rise of Grindelwald, and again, at the height of the Dark Lord’s reign, when it became prominent again, and Aurors and practitioners of Light Magic were forced to confront it once more,” Riddle flicks his wand, almost lazily, and the bird is _dancing_ \- feet tapping wings swirling, spinning in circles until it’s dizzy- dancing over the tables, across Lavender’s hand and Ron’s and stopping right in front of Harry.

There are some laughs across the room at the sight of it, but it is uneasy. The uncomfortable kind of laughter elicited at family Christmas whenever Grandpa Granger makes a bad joke, Hermione’s mother nudging her, telling her to just ‘let it go’ through grinning teeth.

“Do you have any quarrels with this spell, Miss Granger? Does it not solve your problem with _crucio_?” Professor Riddle asks, both mocking and not. He is looking at her like her father looked at crossword puzzles in the paper. He was good at crosswords, her dad. He entered a competition for it and everything, and won a few thousand quid when he was at the top of his game. He’d done the toughest of them all, and now, come Sunday morning, she finds him flicking through the papers, hoping to find something worth his time, but betting against it all the same.

“Well- it certainly has more purpose to it, Sir,” Hermione swallows. She is only saying what she has read, but it feels so wrong to be talking about the Unforgiveables in this way. About their utility. She glances at Harry, the bird frozen at his desk. It is still, but for its chest, rapidly expanding and contracting. Symptoms of a racing heart. It is terrified. “But, aside from being totally barbaric and preposterous, it has its flaws. Because it relies on bewitching the mind, it only really works on the weak minded. It is possible to resist and overcome the Imperius Curse; to throw it off completely, not merely to endure it, like you could with _crucio_. You Know Who used the Imperius Curse on an array of Muggles, for example, because they were easy targets. He would compel them to fight wizards and witches, physically, presenting a moral dilemma to those on the Light, who didn’t believe in harming Muggles, especially those who they knew were only bewitched to attack them. He also used them on his Death Eaters, particularly susceptible minds, not bright by any means, I think that was why he chose them. But he could never successfully use it on any of his more formidable enemies. Not Aurors, not- not Professor Dumbledore.”

Oh, he is looking at her now. And it is nothing like the way her father looked at the paper, or anything. It is bright, and focused, and almost angry, but his lips are curved up.

“You Know Who,” he murmurs. “Of course, that didn’t prove to be his failing, did it? The Aurors, Albus Dumbledore- it wasn’t a strong mind that defeated the greatest Dark Wizard of all time.”

Suddenly, he is looking at Harry.

Harry never told him his name. She supposes Harry never has to.

It must be odd looking at Harry through an expert’s eyes- someone who has studied the Dark Arts, studied the Unforgiveables, learned that the final curse, the killing curse, cannot be countered, not by anything. And yet, here he is. Living, breathing, while You Know Who was not. The Boy Who Lived. The Impossible Boy Who Lived.

“And the final Unforgiveable Curse, Mr Potter?”

“I, um. I don’t know, Sir,” Harry says, but he is as pale as Neville. Hermione feels ill. She knows the answer, of course she does, but Harry knows it better. He has seen it. Her heart hurts.

“No?” Professor Riddle says delicately. Then, without so much as a word of warning, his wand is slashing down through the air, a controlled, precise manoeuvre.

“ _Avada kadavra_.”

The dancing bird falls with an ungraceful clutter on Harry’s desk.

_Dead._

Hermione stares, horrified, ears ringing with the word.

_Dead. Dead. Dead._

_Avada kadavra._

Even Malfoy has stopped laughing now. The spell, it _feels_ like something; some foul energy that lingers after its casting, like a bad smell. It is green, too, a flash of green, casting light across Harry’s face, his scar.

“The killing curse,” Professor Riddle drawls, oblivious to the young witches and wizards shaking in their seats. Lavender looks like she is going to be sick. Hermione wonders idly if she still wants to know if Riddle will go to the Yule Ball with her. “Only one person is known to have survived it. And he is sitting in this room. Of course, the curse operates on the basis of intention. All three do. The curser must truly mean it. That is why, when one simply utters _‘avada kadavra’_ , nobody dies. You have to focus. You have to mean it. That is why they are Unforgiveable. That is why their magic is considered so dark. A wizard of the Light could never perform such spells, so the reasoning goes, because a wizard of the Light would never _intend_ to command another’s free will; to torture; to _kill_.”

The last word rings in Hermione’s ears, and even in that smooth voice, it feels harsh, like a slap across the face.

Professor Riddle takes a step back from Harry’s desk, seeming, at last, to register the shaking mess that his class has become. Sighing, as though disappointed, somehow, he flourishes his wand. The bird trembles, and for a moment, a sad, _glorious_ moment, Hermione thinks that he has breathed life back into it, somehow. That its wings will beat again, and it might dart through the window as free and fast as it had come. But only for a moment. All at once, it begins to disintegrate into the air like burning parchment, feathers crumbling into nothing. It is enchanting.

“Your homework,” Professor Riddle is walking back to his desk, apparently immune to the melancholy charm of the falling bird he has just killed, “due at the beginning of tomorrow’s lesson, is to write an essay telling me whether that reasoning is sound. Know that I am not intending on wasting my afternoon reading your personal feelings about it- I expect evidence. It would be such a shame if you thought you could away with anything less. I certainly wouldn’t recommend trying.”

This is the part where, in any other lesson, with any other Professor, a groan would break out across class, starting with Ron. But here, in this room, this unforgivable room, nothing.

“Oh, and you’re all going to have to stop freezing up at the sight of dark magic like you’ve been petrified. Lesson two, if you have any hope of defending yourself against the dark arts, you’re going to have to be a bit less easily frightened than that.” Disappointed. He has performed two Unforgiveable Curses- illegal curses- in a classroom, and he is disappointed that they haven’t- what? Laughed it off? “Class is dismissed.”

At the beginning of the lesson, Hermione had thought she might dawdle behind after class. Might introduce herself to Professor Riddle, welcome him to Hogwarts, ask him a couple of preliminary questions about exams and pick his brain about recommendations of books outside of those assigned, as she had with Professor Lockhart and Lupin. Now, she shoves her books unceremoniously into her bag and joins the frantic crowd heading for the door.

She moves to fast she nearly collides with Neville, who is standing curiously still.

“Oh, I’m sorry Neville, I…” she frowns, “Neville? Are you alright?”

No answer. Hermione throws a look over her shoulder, sees Harry and Ron, already in the hallway outside, gesturing for her to hurry up. It almost looks like a brighter world there, outside the classroom door. She taps at Neville’s arm gently.

“Come along, Neville.” It’s as though he can’t hear her at all. He’s clutching his bag in both hands in front of him, swaying lightly on his feet, staring somewhere just past her shoulder.

“Neville?” She tries again, voice rising only slightly.

“Don’t get your wand in a knot, Miss Granger.”

Hermione jolts. The Professor is watching them from his desk, a look of clinical annoyance twisting his features.

“I’m sorry, Professor?” Hermione says.

“I accept your apology,” Professor Riddle replies, and Hermione’s mouth falls open, incredulous, “though it is hardly necessary. Mr Longbottom is quite alright, aren’t you, Mr Longbottom?”

“What? Oh, yes, I’m, yes. Fine,” Neville mumbles.

“Look at him,” Hermione says furiously, whirling on Professor Riddle. “He could be a _ghost_. He’s not fine.”

Professor Riddle surveys her. He is polishing his wand again, absent-minded.

“You seem distressed, Miss Granger,” he says coolly. “Tell me, did you find my lesson unsatisfactory?”

Hermione’s stomach twists, and in her mind she kicks herself for not bustling past Neville with the others, escaping this uncomfortable encounter in this uncomfortable room. She can’t make a bad impression on her new Professor. Still, it really is outrageous-

“No Sir,” Hermione's words tripping over themselves in their haste to be said, “I don’t mean any disrespect, Professor, it was an interesting lesson, and it is important to learn about the Unforgiveables, really, I can’t believe that we hadn’t covered it earlier, but to perform them in a classroom, well, I think we were all surprised, is all. Only, the spells are illegal to perform, Sir.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting that I performed them illegally, Miss Granger,” Professor Riddle says coldly. “That would be a serious accusation indeed.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Hermione says, flushed. “Only… well. What, you had permission then? From Dumbledore?”

“From the Ministry of Magic,” Professor Riddle says. “Professor Dumbledore does not have the authority to grant the use of Unforgiveables, Headmaster or not, Miss Granger. Only the Ministry can do that. You ought to know that. And they did, for educational purposes. It might be endearing, the way you expect to competently understand the dark arts without ever witnessing them, if it weren’t so…limited.”

“Limited,” Hermione repeats. The word stings.

“Quite,” he says dryly. “I hope you bring a better attitude with you to class tomorrow, Miss Granger.”

 _Excuse me_ , she wants to say. Because she was _good_ today. She answered his every question, and he was impressed, even if he wasn’t going to say it- even if he hadn’t awarded her a single point for Gryffindor- and all he has to say to her is that she needs to _check her attitude_? She wants to give him a piece of her mind. But she doesn’t.

So, he’s irritable. A little arrogant, too. But it’s like Harry said. He’s not _Voldemort_. He’s not a _fraud_. And she is stuck with him.

“Of course, Professor,” she forces a polite smile. “Thank you for the lesson. I’ll not take up any more of your time.”

Gripping Neville firmly by the wrist, she guides the boy from the room, without looking back to see Professor Riddle staring after them, a curious expression about his face, even after the door swings closed behind them.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> Welcome to Chapter 2. 
> 
> So, here's the thing: I owe you pals a huge thank you. I am honestly shocked by how many of you have expressed support for this story in some way, and I have so much love and gratitude for those of you who took the time to comment on the first chapter; it really means so much!
> 
> I wasn't at all sure whether I'd write anything further, but after reading your thoughts, I've decided to go ham with it. It's going to be a long one, and I'm honestly so excited about where this plot is heading. This chapter, unfortunately, is mostly just providing a bit of necessary but admittedly boring context for the story moving forward (I'm trying to get it over with quickly without having it come across as too rushed, and I'm strugglin- if you have any feedback on that, I'd really appreciate it), but I promise there's some properly exciting stuff to come!
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one too, if you feel like sharing them!

 

* * *

 

Professor Riddle has been at Hogwarts for all of two days and three nights, and he has put the entire castle in a mood. His sixth year class is positively grumbling over dinner, waving marked essays indignantly at one another and arguing over who was the most personally aggrieved by the scathing comments. Lavender Brown is nearly crying over hers, mumbling something to a bewildered Ginny about what Muggles say about snakes; that the beautiful ones have the harshest bite.   

“Can anyone even _read_ that? Pigmy Scrawl, that’s what my mum calls it. Glorified Pigmy Scrawl,” Ron slams his own, barely passing essay, littered with Professor Riddle’s delicate, loopy writing, on the table between the chicken and the gravy boat. Some of the gravy splatters onto the edge of the parchment.

 “Fantastic,” he mutters grumpily, flapping it about to get it off. Hermione winces as hot gravy sprays across the table, onto her arm.

She gives Ron a dark look.

“ _Scourgify_ ,” she murmurs, flicking her wand. She feels a warm kind of glow, and it is done. The satisfaction she feels at the sight of her freshly spotless arm is short-lived. She too is dismayed by the mark at the bottom of the essay that Professor Riddle returned to her this morning, dumped unceremoniously onto her desk even as he set homework for the next lesson: _another_ essay, this time, about possible defences for the use of Unforgiveable Curses. Of course, she fared better than the rest of them, but it’s hardly top marks. He’s knocked off _three_ points.

But that isn’t what bothers Hermione the most. While _every_ other student, Harry, Ron, Neville, even the Slytherins, has extensive commentary scrawled across their assignments, Hermione’s seven page defence of the view that a Light wizard can never intend to perform an Unforgiveable is _unmarked_ , save for a single word, written in tiny letters at the very bottom of the last page.

 ‘ _Good_.’

“How _good_ can it be, if I dropped _three marks_?” she growls under her breath, stabbing her fork into an unfortunate potato.

“I can’t imagine how you must be feeling, Hermione,” Harry says dryly. “Three marks off? Tell us, what’s it like to be at the very _bottom_ of the barrel?”

“Oh, shut up,” Hermione huffs, though she feels a little guilty for complaining. Harry was docked twelve marks, and Ron, sixteen.  “He gave you two perfectly _helpful_ feedback, _lots_ of it, even if it is a bit… harsh. But I get one word? ‘ _Good_ ’? No explanation as to why he’s given me the lowest mark I’ve received for Defence Against the Dark Arts since _first year_?”  

“The _lowest_ mark since first year?” Harry blinks, astounded. “I hope you’re joking.”

“If you’re looking for sympathy you’ve got the wrong audience Hermione,” Ron says darkly. “Honestly, I’d rather be you. I don’t care how many marks he docks me. It’s these bloody condescending comments that are doing my head in. Look at this one!” He drags his finger along underneath as he reads the comment aloud. “‘ _If you were a first year student, Mr Weasley, I’d wager your mother would be proud of this piece.’_ ”

Hermione winces.

“Oh dear.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Harry says, amused, “at least he’s not saying your mother would be disappointed. Really, it’s a compliment.”

“It gets worse,” Ron says. He clears his throat: “‘ _Your teacher, on the other hand, would have expected better_.’”

He raises his eyebrows. “He’s not fucking Dumbledore. Besides, he looks about twelve. How much smarter than us can he really be?”

“Language, Ronald,” Hermione says, though her heart isn’t in it. After all, Professor Riddle really _is_ young. At least, he looks it. He’s intelligent, of course. Exceptionally so, even. But what kind of superiority complex must he have, to not even dignify her with a justification?

“Who does he think he is? First, he performs Dark Magic in class,” Ron goes on, “I mean, blimey. What, is he trying to show off how much of a git he can be without winding up in Azkaban?”

“I can’t believe he did that,” Hermione agrees. “But I do think it _was_ necessary.”

“I’m with Hermione.”

“Oh, come off it, Harry,” Ron scoffs. “You were as shocked as the rest of us after class.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry shrugs, “I mean, it wasn’t _fun_. But with everything that’s going on- you know,  the World Cup, Voldemort’s Mark-maybe it’s time we see what dark magic looks like. See what we’re fighting.”

Hermione shivers.

“The Death Eaters,” she says softly. “Your scar, Harry. It’s been hurting again, hasn’t it?”

Harry shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. The look on his face answers her.  

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s why he killed a bird on your desk,” Ron says sarcastically, back on Riddle, “Because of the Death Eaters. That, or he’s just a bit of a tosser.”

“Speak of the devil,” Dean, who’s been silently enjoying their exchange from a few seats down, coughs, nodding towards the staff table. Professor Riddle is taking a seat beside McGonagall, smiling, leaning in to speak to her. McGonagall, who Hermione has never seen charmed by anyone, smiles and touches his arm, ushering him to the seat beside her.

“Oh, _fuck_ you,” Ron mutters in Riddle’s general direction. “Just look at him. Imagine being that _smug_.”

In truly unfortunate timing, Professor Riddle glances in their direction precisely as the words leave Ron’s mouth, eyes raking over the Gryffindors mulling over their open papers. Hermione looks down quickly, hoping he’ll follow suit. He doesn’t. Riddle just smiles, raising his goblet, first, towards them, and then to his lips. He takes a long sip before he turns back to McGonagall. Hermione surveys the staff table, wondering if anyone had witnessed their exchange. Professor Dumbledore, she notes with some surprise, is nowhere to be seen tonight, though Madam Maxime, the stunning giantess and Headmistress of Beauxbatons, and Karkaroff, the Headmaster of Durmstrang dressed all in dark colour, are seated and deep in conversation.

“He does have some nerve,” she says. Without meaning to, her eyes drift back to Professor Riddle. If she wasn’t in a mood because of her ‘marked’ essay, she might be endeared by the way he looks now, engaged in conversation with McGonagall, not paying any mind to the way his perfectly groomed hair is falling over his eyes as he throws his head back to laugh in earnest at something that she says.  

“What’s the matter, Granger? Crying over spilt marks?”

If Hermione hadn’t been raised better, she would groan aloud. She knows that voice. Sure enough, when she turns away from Professor Riddle she is greeted by the decidedly less pleasant sight of Draco Malfoy leering at her, arms folded across his chest.

“Speaking of being that smug,” Ron says sardonically, and Hermione hides a smile.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” she says, polite as she can manage.

“Me? Oh, don’t worry, I don’t intend on lingering at _this_ table for long at all. I just wanted to know if the rumours were true,” he grins. “Hermione Granger, losing her touch? You looked like you were going to cry when you got your essay back today, you know. I just thought I’d let you know, in case you thought nobody noticed.” 

Ron scowls at him.

“Yeah? And how did _you_ do, Malfoy?” Ron says heatedly.

“One mark behind Granger here, actually,” Malfoy says easily, and Hermione freezes. “You want to watch it, Granger. Being a bossy know-it-all is sad at the best of times. But when you’re not even top of the class, well…” he lets his smirk finish the sentence for him.

Hermione swallows hard. He’s lying, she tells herself. It’s _Malfoy_. And yet… Riddle had awarded him points, that first lesson. Malfoy, and not her.

“Right,” Harry says, impatient. “Well, now you’ve said your piece Malfoy, if it’s all the same to you, you’d better go back to your table. Crabbe and Goyle are probably wondering where their babysitter is.”

“You want to be careful of how you speak to me, Potter,” Malfoy hisses, and he opens his mouth to say more, but a rumble of excited chatter drowns him out.

“Parvati? What’s going on?” Harry says, as the girl half-runs into the Great Hall, a modest mob of students following suit.  

“Oh, Harry!” she says, “it’s the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students. They’re coming to put their names in the Goblet of Fire, right now!”

She nearly topples over, then, shoved out of the path of Fleur Delacour, the girl who won Ron’s heart with a flutter of her eyelids. Her hair is silvery, eyes a fierce kind of blue. Hermione follows the girl will idle interest as she approaches the Goblet, easily, confidently, and places her name in its flames. In an instant, the flames turn bright blue, shading the whole hall in the colour, if only for a moment. There is a cheer from the crowd of blue girls surrounding Fleur, and she is engulfed in embraces as her friends escort her from the hall, flanking her like bodyguards.

“Bloody hell,” Ron mumbles, smitten.

Hermione sighs. “Honestly, Ronald, have you even spoken to her?”

“Well, not yet,” he begins hotly, but a sound, like clapping thunder on the stone floor, turns his attention elsewhere.

“Blimey,” Ron says, turning white. He grabs Harry’s arm, pointing with his free hand. “I knew it, didn’t I? It’s him. Krum!”

Hermione rolls her eyes, but casts her gaze over to the door, where, sure enough, the mass of muscle wrapped up in a fur coat that is Viktor Krum is marching surely towards the Goblet of Fire, where it stands before the staff table, before Professor Dumbledore’s empty chair. A parade of Durmstrang boys are trailing behind him. For all the hype that Hogwarts is expressing for his nomination, Krum’s face is curiously serene. His eyes are fixed on the Goblet, and he’s giving no indication at all that he’s aware of the woops and applause following him down the hall.

Sighing, Hermione pulls out her assignment again, pouring over her words, guessing at what it was about her work that Riddle found lacking… _limited._ That word he had used his first lesson. Did he find it _limited_?

She could talk to him about it, she thinks. Ask him for feedback. But after her last encounter with Professor Riddle, Hermione isn’t overly thrilled at the prospect of spending any more time with him than strictly necessary.  

Heightened applause tells Hermione that Viktor Krum has placed his name in the Goblet of Fire; that the flames have turned from orange to blue, consumed the piece of parchment bearing his name. She grimaces, irritated at the noise, and looks up.

Viktor Krum is very close to the Gryffindor table now, walking past on his way from the Hall. Opposite her, Ron’s cheeks have turned positively crimson.

Krum slows as he approaches them, and for a moment, she wonders if he’s come to offer him another autograph. She sighs, and without meaning to, catches his eye.

He smiles. It’s a fleeting smile, but quite extraordinarily transformative; his thick brows, strong features, soften for an instant, and he looks his age.  

“Hello,” he says, a deep, accented greeting. He’s speaking to her.

Hermione opens her mouth, perplexed, but before she can respond, he has past them.

Ron chokes on his breath, and Hermione is very conscious of his eyes boring into the back of her head. Not just his. Krum’s trail of starstruck fans follow after him, casting bewildered looks at Hermione over their shoulders. The teachers are watching too, McGonagall and Hagrid, even Professor Riddle, all looking from Krum to Hermione. Karkaroff looks particularly displeased, lips curled in an unpleasant sort of manner. Professor Riddle looks-

_Being a bossy know-it-all is sad at the best of times. But when you’re not even top of the class, well…_

Hermione drops her gaze. She decides she doesn’t give a damn how Professor Riddle looks.

* * *

 

For a minute, the Gryffindor table is very quiet. Then,

“Bloody hell,” Ron says, shaken. “What was that about?”

“You must have caught Krum’s eye, Hermione,” Parvati says suggestively.

“God, did you see how close he was?” Ron is talking excitedly, “Surprising, really, most good seekers are small, you know, lanky, sort of weedy-looking, like Harry here, but Krum’s all muscle-”

“Enough bragging about your boyfriend who doesn’t know he’s your boyfriend, Ron,” Ginny calls from further down the table precisely as Harry lets out an indignant, ‘hey!’, and Gryffindor erupts with laughter.

“Ah, here we go, then!” Dean shouts, and Hermione snaps up to see Cedric Diggory, the handsome boy she had met at the World Cup, grinning and waving as he approaches the Goblet in Hufflepuff yellow robes, folded parchment held high in his hand.

“Go Cedric!” Ginny shouts her support, and Cedric puts his name in the flames to a hearty cheer from across the Hall.

A well-groomed Slytherin boy equipped with a neatly folded square of parchment, is next in line, stepping up to the Goblet with a proud smirk on his face. Malfoy claps loudly as the flames turn blue for him. After that, another girl in blue, hair red and frizzy in a way that very much endears her to Hermione. Sure enough, a line has begun to form.

“Hell, I wish I could nominate. This whole ‘seventeen and older’ rule sucks,” Ron says, and Harry and Ron stare at him, incredulous. “What? Danger, eternal glory, sounds like a laugh to me.”

“Ron Weasley, don’t you dare ever let your mother hear you say that,” Hermione says crossly. “You do remember that people die in this stupid, masochistic game?”

“It’s not just a game, Hermione,” Parvati swallows. “It’s the most prestigious international school competition there is. Father wanted me to nominate, before he found out about the new rule.”

Hermione is alarmed.

“Your father _wanted_ you to nominate? But, if you were picked-”  

“How _are_ people picked?” Harry asks. When everyone raises their eyebrows at him, he puts his hands up. “Alright, sorry, wasn’t quite listening in Dumbledore’s speech. He lost me at the bit about glory and galleons.”

Hermione sighs. “Well, it’s the Goblet that does it. It’s been bewitched by Dumbledore himself. It analyses the characteristics of each nominee, and picks out worthy matches.”

“Like a matchmaker for a deadly competition,” Parvati says wryly. “Brilliant.” 

“Speaking of Dumbledore,” Hermione muses, “where _is_ he anyway? It’s not like him to miss dinner.” The empty space at the staff tables bothers her, though why, she cannot particularly say. 

“With any luck, he’s gone to find Lupin on his holiday to beg him to come back to teach,” Harry jokes.

“Yeah,” Ron chortles. Then, he leans in. “Honestly, Harry, wouldn’t you go for it, if you could? The Cup, I mean. The Tournament. You’d definitely be ‘worthy’, mate, you’re only the bloody Boy Who Lived.”

“Call me crazy, Ron, but I’m not too keen to find out why this Tournament is meant to be so deadly,” Harry shrugs. “Plus, looks like I’ll be spending this year trying not to fail Defence Against the Dark Arts anyway.”

“You won’t fail, Harry,” Hermione says at once. “Don’t be silly. We’ll study together.”

“Thanks Hermione,” Harry and Ron say in unison.

“Also, sod Riddle,” Ron adds.

Hermione’s eyes fall to her paper, still spread out across the table. _‘Good’_ bears into her brain, taunting her.

Sod Riddle indeed.

* * *

 

 

About a week after the flurry of activity in the Great Hall, the announcements are made. There’s some air of frantic madness in Hogwarts tonight, a restlessness that prompts whispered conversations in the hallways, speculative glances at those whose names were in the proverbial hat for the Triwizard Tournament. Even Hermione feels a sort of knot in her stomach, like nerves; as though her own name is in that enchanted goblet at the grand head of the staff table. It isn’t, of course.

 _It isn’t, you’re safe, don’t be ridiculous_.

She says it over and over, as though the more she says it, the more certain she is that it is true.  

 Now, Professor Dumbledore, who Hermione has not seen since the Welcome Feast, stands at his podium again at last, sporting a bedazzled purple robe that splays across the floor and beaming out over everyone. There is something about the sight of him that is of immense comfort to Hermione; something about being in the presence of a wizard as kind, as intelligent, as good, as she hopes to be, that makes her feel like she is precisely where she ought to be. She wonders if the others feel it too.

The hall crowded with three schools worth of students, all eagerly waiting to hear who their champion would be. The staff table, too, is packed. Even Filch has emerged from the dungeons to witness the occasion. There is, however, one noteable absence. Professor Riddle is nowhere to be seen.

Probably marking their latest round of essays, Hermione thinks bitterly. Though how time consuming it could be when all he’s had to say to anything she’s produced in the past week has been limited to a single syllable, she can’t say.

“Now, students, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Professor Dumbledore says calmly, half-moon spectacles resting at the brink of his nose, “Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, Hogwarts, I invite you to meet your school champions. Be warned: the challenges that await the three chosen students are not for the faint-hearted. It will take a great deal of intellect, courage, strength, to overcome each and every one of them. You would do well, however, not to allow the Tournament to consume you. More than one bright student has lost themselves in this competition once before.”

The crowd, practically vibrating with anticipation, doesn’t seem to know how to respond to the sombre warning Dumbledore’s woven into his speech. There’s an uneasy stretch of quiet before the Headmaster speaks again, upbeat, this time.

 “Of course, succeed, and you will be rewarded. Ladies and gentlemen,” Dumbledore raises his hand to his right ceremoniously, and out of nothing at all, the most beautiful cup materialises, comprised almost entirely of blue crystal that dances in the light of the enchanted candles that line the ceiling tonight, silver handles resting proudly on its either side, like hands on hips. “The Triwizard Cup.”

The “oohs” and “aahs” are hushed, nerves setting in across the room now. Hermione catches a glimpse of the red-haired girl who put her name in the Cup last week. Her eyes are closed, and she is clutching hands with the girl beside her, gripping tight. She is murmuring something under her breath. Something like ‘ _please_ ’.

“Without further ado,” Dumbledore goes on, and pulling off a glove, he traces the tips of his fingers across the surface of the Goblet. As he does, the flames go from orange, to blue, to pure white. The Headmaster closes his eyes, murmuring something as his fingers dance across the surface of the Goblet. When he opens them, the fire comes alive, somehow, writhing and dancing until finally, it is spitting something from its depths- parchment, unharmed by the flames.

Hermione draws her breath in. It is moments like this, tiny moments, the ones that don’t matter, that she finds herself enamoured with magic.

“The first Champion, from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic,” Dumbledore clears his throat, pausing for a moment for good measure, “congratulations, Miss Fleur Delacour.”

As Fleur stands, a smile born of shock and gratitude spreading across her face, hands trembling as she makes her way to shake Professor Dumbledore’s hand, Hermione spares a glance for the red-haired girl. The whole of Beauxbatons is cheering for Fleur, a sea of gloved, blue hands clapping in passionate unison. All but this girl. She looks crestfallen, heartbroken, head falling into her hands. 

 _You should be celebrating, for goodness sake,_ Hermione wants to tell her, _you’re not going to be risking your life for a silly trophy for the rest of the year._

Fleur bows, ever gracious, as she reaches Professor Dumbledore, kissing him lightly on both cheeks, and Madam Maxime pushes past the other Professors to clasp Fleur’s shoulder, positively beaming, bending to mutter something in her Champion’s ear-

A deep humming sound rumbling from the pit of the Goblet lets them know that the second Champion is about to be identified.

Dumbledore catches the second name with a snap of his fingers, holding the parchment up to the light and squinting as he reads aloud.

“Durmstrang, I have your Champion,” he declares, and, to nobody’s surprise, and thunderous applause, “Viktor Krum.”

Where Fleur had shaken, looked surprised, honoured, even, Krum merely nods, mouth set in a relaxed line as he shakes Professor Dumbledore’s hand. He was expecting this. Karkaroff folds his arms, nodding, too. He never dreamed of anything less.  

“Which means,” Dumbledore smiles, “Hogwarts, your Champion is about to be announced.”

The flames respond to his words, turning red, then green, then yellow and blue, all in the fraction of a moment. The spectacle of it only adds to the hysteria, the cheerful madness, that has enchanted the hall.

 When the Goblet spits out the final parchment, Hermione is unsurprised to hear the announcement that Cedric Diggory will be the Hogwarts Champion.

“Go Cedric!”

“Yes, yes!”

The shouts of support come mostly from Hufflepuff house, though Hermione claps along with the rest of Gryffindor. She surveys Cedric as he makes his way to join the other Champions. He’s quite thin, and he wears a disarming smile that never seems to fade. He doesn’t strike her as the kind of person who should be entering into a life threatening Tournament on the altar of eternal glory.

 “There we have it,” Dumbledore roars over the applause, “Your three champions. Champions, if you will follow Headmaster Karkaroff from the Hall, information about the Tournament will be disclosed to you, confidentially. For the rest of you, you must wait until the first task to see what dangers these Champions must overcome. Rest assured, it will be worth the waiting. Now-”

Something cuts him off. Not the applause, not the shouting.

It’s the Goblet. Its flames are swirling, chasing each other around, frantic, somehow. A steady rumbling sound shakes the floors.

Harry, Ron and Hermione find each other’s eyes, a shared sense of fear, apprehension, drawing them to one another.

“Is this meant to happen?” Neville leans in, staring at the Goblet.

“No,” Hermione says tightly, “No, I don’t think it is, Neville.”

“Blimey,” Ron whispers, “It’s going nuts.”  

Even the staff are taken aback.

“What is this, Professor Dumbledore?” Madam Maxime demands, clutching Fleur by the shoulders, protectively, as though the Goblet means to attack her.

“My dear Madam,” Dumbledore says, eyes wide and fixed on the flames, “I’m afraid I have no idea.”

The flames are growing higher, and Hermione begins to wonder why nobody is using magic to restrain it yet. A general shield, perhaps, or a containment charm -  

And then something falls from its heart, landing softly in Professor Dumbledore’s open palm.

Dumbledore glances down at the paper, a look of plain bewilderment on his face.

“What is it, Dumbledore?” Karkaroff asks, impatient, eyes narrowed.

“It is a name, Igor,” Dumbledore murmurs, so low Hermione almost doesn’t catch it. “It’s another name.”

Karkaroff inclines his head, frowning now.

“Another name?” he sneers, suspicion and anger chasing each other in his eyes, “and what name is it, _Albus_?”

Dumbledore looks out at the crowd of students before him, and then at the Champions, clustered around Karkaroff and Madam Maxime, each face as confused as the last.

Dumbledore mutters something now, a name. Hermione can’t make it out.

“What?” Karkaroff hisses.

Dumbledore clears his throat, eyes casting across the Gryffindor table, searching.

“Harry Potter.”

* * *

 

It is quiet. For a long, drawn-out moment, it is entirely silent, despite the Great Hall being packed to its brim with people.

Hermione feels numb. 

_Harry Potter._

But that’s impossible.

 Because there are three champions, and not four. Because Harry didn’t put his name in the Goblet of Fire. Because he couldn’t possibly have. Because he is sixteen, and the Tournament excludes him by its own rules. Because this is a dangerous tournament, an awful one, and Harry Potter is her best friend.

Harry is sitting next to her, deadly still. She tears her eyes from Dumbledore and the Goblet to look at him. He is staring at his plate without really seeing it, and his fists are clenched on his knees. He swallows, hard.

“Harry Potter,” Dumbledore says again, louder this time, and the sudden noise makes Hermione’s heart skip.

“Harry,” she hisses, nudging the boy beside her. “Harry, I think you have to go up now.”

Harry shifts around to look at her, eyes wide; scared. He’s scared, she realises.

“Tell me you didn’t do this,” she whispers. “Tell me you didn’t- somehow?”

“Hermione,” he says helplessly, “You know I didn’t.”

“Harry Potter!”

This time, it is deafening. Hermione winces. She gives Harry a look, and he scrapes his chair back, the sound echoing through the packed Hall. He starts to walk towards Professor Dumbledore. Nobody is applauding this time, no cheers of support, though a steady murmur from the Slytherin table is gaining traction. Hermione follows him with her gaze, noting the look on Professor Dumbledore’s face: controlled, blank.

The sight of Harry walking up to meet that gaze on his own hurts too much to sustain. Hermione drops her eyes, turning instead to the Gryffindors around her. It’s then that she notices Ron. He’s quiet, too. Tense; shoulders hunched and jaw set firm. Unlike Dumbledore, his feelings are not masked. He is furious.

“Ron,” she hisses. He doesn’t respond.  

“Mr Karkaroff,” Dumbledore clears his throat, projecting his voice so that everybody can hear, “If you would escort Miss Delacour, Mr Krum, Mr Diggory and Mr Potter into the trophy room, please. We will discuss what has just occurred there. For the rest of you, enjoy the rest of your meal.”

The moment he’s finished speaking, Dumbledore grips Harry by the forearm, marching him down the corridor and out of the Hall, Madam Maxime, Karkaroff, and the rest of the Champions half running to keep up.

 When the door swings closed behind them, the madness erupts.

* * *

 

 

It takes about half an hour to navigate the crowded hall and collapse by the fireplace in the Gryffindor Common Room.

Hermione all but dragged Ron here, and he turns on her the moment they sit down.

“Oh, come on, Hermione,” he says angrily, “You don’t really believe he didn’t do it, do you?”

“Do _what,_ Ron?”

“Find some loophole! Some way to get his name in the Goblet,” Ron says exasperatedly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione says briskly, “didn’t you see his face? Besides, Harry would have told us if he wanted to enter, but we know he didn’t.”

“Do we?” Ron says, voice dripping with cynicism. “And would he?”

He’s projecting, she thinks. He’s _jealous_ , of all things. He wishes that it could have been him, whose name was called out. He, who had caused that fuss in the Hall.

But Hermione doesn’t say any of that. Just places a hand on Ron’s shoulder.

“I believe him,” she says, soft, but firm. “And whether you do or don’t, he’s going to need our help. This is a _seriously_ dangerous Tournament, Ron. If Dumbledore can’t find a way to get him out of it, he’ll be stuck in it. I’ll hate it if he’s involved, but if he is, we’ll have to help him.”

“Yeah?” Ron snorts. “Speak for yourself.” He shrugs her hand off his shoulder. The gesture is small, but it stings. “If he wanted my help, he should’ve told me the truth. Besides, he’s good enough all on his own, isn’t he? Goblet clearly thinks he’s ‘worthy’.”

“Ron,” Hermione says desperately.

“Let it go, Hermione,” he says, coldly. Hermione doesn’t think Ron has ever been _cold_ before. “I’ve got a problem with Harry, not you.”

Hermione just shakes her head, willing herself not to cry. Her face feels very hot.

“Do you want me to help you with Defence Against the Dark Arts?” she croaks, a weak effort to change the subject. “I was just going to finish mine.”

“May as well just ask Malfoy now- he’s almost matching you, isn’t he?” Ron says, and Hermione’s mouth falls open a little, the jab unexpected, coming from him. Ron’s face softens a little at the hurt on Hermione’s. “Sorry. You know I didn’t mean that. Bad mood.” He grimaces. “I think I’m just going to go to bed. Good night, ‘Mionie.”

“Good night,” Hermione says, in a very small voice. She stares, mesmerised, at the fire as Ron heads up the stairs to the boys dormitory. She can still see the Goblet’s flames, choking out Harry’s name. Behind her, she is vaguely aware of her fellow Gryffindors having different versions of the same conversation she and Ron had. Some sound impressed (Dean, Lavender), some concerned (Ginny, Neville), and some sound indignant (Seamus, Parvati).

She closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, it is because somebody is tapping her shoulder, gently. She starts, sitting upright on the couch, taking in the scene around her. The fire is reduced to embers now, a faint, golden glow, and the common room is finally empty, save for the boy who’s taken a seat beside her.

“ _Harry,”_ she says, making out his glasses in the limited light. “Oh, thank Merlin. What happened? What time is it? Harry, what did Dumbledore say?”

“It’s not good, Hermione,” Harry says gruffly. “Karkaroff is furious, and Madam Maxime…well, they all thought I’d done it on purpose. Or that Dumbledore had. And Dumbledore…” he shakes his head, “fuck, Hermione. I told him I didn’t do anything. I don’t know if he believes me. It’s useless, anyway. They called in somebody from the Ministry- Mr Crouch, he’s called. He said the rules are clear. The Goblet chose me, for whatever reason…and the magic is binding.”

“No,” Hermione breathes.

“McGonagall tried to convince them to let me out of it,” Harry sniffs. “They’re going to get Professor Riddle to run a test on the Goblet this week, check that it wasn’t enchanted. By me.” He laughs, humourless. “I don’t know what to do, Hermione.”

Hermione shakes her head, mind spinning.

“They’re really making you do it,” she says, stunned. “I can’t believe it.” She grasps his hand. “Harry, you do what you have to, then. You stay alive. I’m going to help. I promise.”

Tired, overwhelmed, as he must be, Harry smiles.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he says. “I’d be pretty bloody terrified if I didn’t have you to count on.” He hesitates. “Speaking of. Ron?”

Hermione gives him an apologetic look.

“He needs some time, I think,” she murmurs. “I think he’s just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Harry scoffs. “Never took Ron for an idiot.”

“Don’t,” Hermione says gently.

“Sorry,” Harry mutters. “Just would be nice if one of my best friends didn’t think I was a liar, you know?”

Hermione sighs, nods. She wondered if this would ever happen; if something would ever be bad enough to throw a wrench in Harry and Ron. The prospect of a world where they’re not friends, on good terms-

Suddenly, Hermione feels unbearably sad.

“So, what now?” Harry asks. “Because I’m suddenly not in the mood to head to my dorm right now.”

“Well,” Hermione says, trying to sound more cheerful than she is, “before I fell asleep, I was working on my essay, for Professor Riddle. Have you done yours?”

“Made a start,” Harry says, “I don’t suppose you could give me some pointers, could you?”

Hermione grins.

“Where’s your quill?”

* * *

 

Defence Against the Dark Arts is the last class of the day, and the agitated energy that has been brewing since breakfast is at its peak when Professor Riddle stands up to teach them about famous dark wizards in Europe, and how they were defeated. In an effort to avoid confrontation with Ron, Harry has opted for a seat in the front of class beside Hermione, and she can all but feel Ron’s glare bearing into the back of their heads. Of course, Ron isn’t alone in staring at Harry.

 Nobody has asked him whether he did it yet. Not today. Not in Charms in the morning, not at lunch, not at Transfiguration- they dare not, with Professor McGonagall glaring at anybody who so much as looked at him. But now, they are restless. Now, Hermione thinks, resignedly, now, they are in for an interesting lesson.

“Menderos,” Professor Riddle says testily, for the second time, “will somebody tell me who she is, or have you all taken a collective vow of silence and idiocy this afternoon?”

Hermione raises her hand.

“Please, Sir. Menderos is an Italian witch famous for her mass slaughter of magical children. A gifted child at school herself, Menderos was expelled in her final year for expressing ideas that her Professors found dangerous and disturbing,” she says, knowing better, at this point, than to expect any manner of praise or points in return.

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” Professor Riddle says politely, “For coming to class _conscious_. Does anybody else want to add to that? Mr Malfoy?”

“I, uh,” Malfoy, who had been busy fashioning himself a paper plane to lob Harry’s way, is caught off-guard. “I don’t know. Sorry, Professor.”

Professor Riddle looks livid.

“Thirty points from Slytherin, Mr Malfoy.”

“ _What_?” Malfoy is incredulous.

“For coming unprepared to my class,” Riddle says coolly. “Ten points to anyone who can tell me why you’re all being especially useless today.”

Hermione hesitates, glancing at Harry. Before either of them can say a word, Malfoy pipes up again.

“Sir, it’s Potter,” he says, pointing. “He’s manipulated his way into the Triwizard Tournament, and he hasn’t even admitted it.”

Professor Riddle’s expression is unreadable as he looks from Malfoy to Harry.

“It’s true, Sir.”

Hermione has to fight the urge to gasp at that. It’s Ron.

“The Tournament’s only meant to have three contestants, all seventeen,” he says, not looking at Harry. “Harry won’t tell anyone how he did it.”

“I see,” Professor Riddle says thinly, fixing his eyes on Ron and narrowing them, as though he doesn’t like what he sees. “I dare say this is the first time you’ve volunteered an answer to a question in my classroom, Mr Weasley. Telling, don’t you think, that it is to point the finger at your classmate?”

Ron swallows, and Hermione looks at Professor Riddle, taken aback. He can be rude, she knows that, and direct. But though both of those things, this time, it almost seems as though- well, it seems as though he is defending Harry.

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Professor Riddle says decidedly. “And Slytherin. And ten points from anyone else who thinks that their time is better spent participating in a juvenile witch-hunt than participating in my class.”

“Professor!” Malfoy protests, “But you said-”

“Understood?” Riddle interrupts, “Excellent.” His smile is sharp. “Now, Menderos. What was so unusual about the way she was defeated? Yes, Miss Granger.”

The lesson continues in an orderly, albeit strained, fashion, Hermione offering up most of the answers as usual, and Professor Riddle, as usual, barely acknowledging her responses beyond a ‘yes, and can anybody else tell me…’. Malfoy is sulking at the back of the room, and Ron is being characteristically quiet. Hermione is exhausted by the time Professor Riddle calls it a day.

“Quite right, Miss Granger, even now, Aurors are unable to identify all the children killed, thanks to that particular charm on the corpses. Alright. We’re finished beating the dead hippogriff that is this lesson. Your homework is to write an essay, no less than five pages, about where Menderos went wrong, to be handed in at the _beginning_ of next lesson, not, Mr Thomas, the end. You’re all dismissed,” he says tiredly.  

Relieved, Hermione scoops her books towards her, knocking them messily into her bag in her haste to pack up.

“Potter, stay behind,” Professor Riddle adds casually.

Hermione pauses, glancing at Harry. He just shrugs, too tired to protest.  

“Go ahead,” he mutters, “I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Harry,” she says, reluctant to leave him alone to face Professor Riddle. 

“It’s okay, Hermione.”  

Hermione hesitates, but nods. She casts a look over her shoulder at the Professor. He’s at his own desk, lining up his quills.

“Careful,” she whispers, quiet as she can, raising her eyebrows pointedly at Professor Riddle. It sounds like a warning, and she almost means it to. The truth is, there is something about their Professor that unnerves her. As though he has this power that runs deeper than she can see.

* * *

 

Hermione is in the library. With the mania that the school has become with Krum, Professor Riddle, and the wretched Triwizard Tournament, it feels like the last tranquil thing in Hogwarts, and Hermione savours it. The calm air, the smell of old books, the faint flickering of candlelight, just clear enough to read by. Of course, even here, she cannot escape thoughts of the Tournament, of Harry _in_ said Tournament. She hasn’t seen him since Professor Riddle asked for a word, and there’s been a knot in her chest ever since.

Accepting the futility in pretending to focus on class any longer, Hermione starts browsing the shelves for books about the Triwizard Tournament. There’s one on the very first Tournament, the political circumstances that were conducive to its birth, and then another, aptly summarising the challenges year by year, and another, critiquing the entire enterprise and serving as a memorial for those students who lost their lives in pursuit of the Cup. Once Hermione has a modest pile, she makes her way back to the wooden table she had been working on her Defence Against the Dark Arts homework- only to find it occupied.

“Professor _Riddle_?” she says, bewildered.

The Professor ignores her. He is leaning back in the chair, _her_ chair, her unfinished homework in his hands, and his eyes scanning over the pages with a keen sort of focus.  

“Professor?” she says again, clearing her throat. “Excuse me, Sir.”

It is only now that Professor Riddle looks up and registers her standing there, books held close to her chest and hair unkempt.

He raises his eyebrows.  

“Miss Granger,” he inclines his head. He is still holding her paper. “I’d say it’s a surprise to find you in the library after curfew, but it’s really not.”

“After curfew?” Hermione frowns. She came here right away after class; that can’t be right. “Sir, curfew is at 10.”  

He studies her face, scrunched up in confusion, for a long time before he smiles. It’s a real smile, not cold, or forced, like it had been that first day of class. If Hermione had forgotten how beautiful he was capable of being, his face in this moment, lit up with something like amusement, is a rude reminder.

“Yes, it is. And as of right now, it is almost eleven. I take it you lost track of time,” he tilts his head. “I won’t fault you for that, Miss Granger.”

“ _Eleven_?” Hermione says, astounded. She swings around, squinting for the clock over the librarian’s desk. “Oh, I- oh dear. Thank you, Professor. Sorry. I don’t know how I didn’t notice.”

“I can appreciate that,” he says diplomatically, “however, I daresay the Slytherin Prefects on curfew duty tonight won’t.”

 _Is that a threat, or a warning_?

“I see,” she says carefully. “And what brings you here, Sir?”, and, before she can restrain herself, “And where’s Harry?”  

Professor Riddle looks very much like he is trying not to laugh now.

“To answer your first question, I’m reading,” he says, holding up her homework, as if to say ‘ _see_?’.

Some feeling of horror makes her stomach curl. It’s a mess at this point, that essay, and he, the Professor she wants, needs, to prove herself to the most, has read it in its worst form.

“It’s not finished,” she mutters, hoping she doesn’t sound as embarrassed, as angry, as she feels.  

“No,” he says evenly, “but it is promising.”

_Promising._

 Good, interesting, acceptable, promising, good, good, and good again. Always one word.

“Is that all?” Hermione says, unable to stop herself.

Professor Riddle raises his eyebrows. He still hasn’t given her essay back.

“You seem awfully put out for somebody who’s just been told their work is promising,” he observes. “Is there something on your mind, Miss Granger?”

His question doesn’t have the same arrogant edge to it that it normally does in class, and it is for this reason that Hermione hesitates. Her arms are beginning to ache from the weight of the books they’re supporting, but she is less eager to flee for the Common Room than she had been a moment ago.

“You haven’t answered my second question,” she says. “Harry?”

A soft laugh escapes Riddle’s lips.

“I must say I rather take offence at that _concerned_ look on your face, Miss Granger. Potter left for Quidditch practice not five minutes after you did after the lesson,” he says lazily. “Let me assure you that while I see fit to demonstrate dark magic on creatures with limited sentience, I do not make a habit of practicing on my students in my spare time.”

Hermione feels herself flush.

“Of course,” she says.

 _What did you say to him?_ She wants to press. _Why did you ask him to stay back?_

“Quite.”

There’s a beat, and they’re just surveying each other. Riddle, oddly, looks about as curious as Hermione feels. He’s being almost kind now, she thinks, and she doesn’t understand it, because the man she met in that first lesson did not seem that way. That man chilled her to the bone, when he decided that the cost of their lesson was a songbird’s life.

“It’s late, Miss Granger,” Professor Riddle says at last, “and I very much doubt your ability to continue standing there balancing that ridiculous pile of books for much longer. Come, I’ll escort you to your Common Room.”

“ _Escort_ me?” Hermione says before she can stop herself.

Riddle gives her a long look, raising a single eyebrow in affirmation.

“Unless, of course, you want to risk detention if the Prefects on patrol see you,” he says conversationally. “A staff escort gives you immunity, of sorts.”

Hermione frowns.

“You want to give me immunity?”

Riddle sighs, irritated.

“I’m _offering_ to give you immunity, though if you insist on repeating everything I say I may have to withdraw it.”

“Oh,” Hermione says. “Um. Yes. Yes, thank you… Professor.”

Professor Riddle inclines his head, standing in a single, fluid motion. He holds her unfinished essay out to her, palms up.

“I’ll swap you,” he jerks his head to gesture at her books.

“Oh, that’s quite alright, I’ll manage,” Hermione says quickly, taking care not to brush his skin with hers as she takes her work back and places it neatly atop her pile.

Riddle shakes his head. He looks exasperated and amused in equal measure.

“Suit yourself, Granger.”

 

As the two of them exit the library, an amicable kind of silence punctuated by a creaking floor falls over them. Outside the library, it is terribly dark, bewitched candles spaced out evenly through the halls. Despite being new to Hogwarts, Riddle has no trouble navigating his way about. In the security of the darkness, Hermione lets herself observe Professor Riddle. He is walking with his hands in his pockets, and his face is titled towards the floor. The shadow and light cast patterns on his face, complimenting a sharp jawline. Relaxed. That’s the word. He looks relaxed.

“Professor,” she says slowly, carefully. She doesn’t want to spoil the quiet; the unprecedented peace between the two of them- but she needs to ask.

“Miss Granger.”

“If it’s alright, I want to ask you a question,” she swallows.

In the dark, she sees Riddle’s teeth flash; a short-lived smile.

“Shocking.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, Hermione presses on.

“You said my essay is promising. And you said my first essay was good, and the one after that was interesting. But I’ve seen what you’ve written on Harry’s assignments, and Ron’s, and Parvati’s. Your comments are so detailed; you point out _all_ the ways they went wrong. You don’t do that with mine.”

“Is there a question in there somewhere, Miss Granger?” Riddle replies, and it is too dark now for Hermione to see his face.

“Why?” she says, unable to hide her urgent curiosity any longer. “Why don’t you do that for mine? How good or interesting are my essays, really, if you never give me full marks – never-mind the fact that you give Malfoy- sorry, Mr Malfoy- more or less the same grade every time, not to say he’s a particularly bad student, of course, I don’t mean to imply-”

Beside her, Riddle snorts.

“You’re a shoddy liar, Miss Granger,” he says. “Draco Malfoy is a shocking student.”

“I just don’t quite- _what_?” Hermione says, certain that she has misheard.

“Mr Malfoy,” Riddle repeats, slowly, “he’s hopeless.”

Hermione stops walking.

“ _What_?”

Her arms are aching under the weight of the books now, but she’s too shocked, too angry, to care.

“I think you heard me,” Riddle says calmly. He is still now, too.

“I’m sorry, but I hardly think that’s an appropriate thing to say about one of your students,” Hermione bursts.

“No,” Riddle agrees coolly, “but it’s no less appropriate than complaining that a student who you see as your inferior is getting the same marks as you. Besides, it’s hardly a controversial statement.”

Hermione flushes furiously.

“I _never_ said Malfoy was my inferior,” she says, trying, and failing spectacularly, to keep the anger from her voice, “But if you think that- if you think that, then why are you giving us the same marks? And please, Professor, don’t tell me it’s because I’m hopeless too, because I’m not.”

She regrets it as soon as she’s said it.

Hermione _wishes_ she could see his face. She can tell that he is looking at her closely now. The inappropriateness of the situation is not lost on her. Here she is, after curfew in the corridors, hauling a mountain of books along with her and having the audacity to confront the Professor who has been gracious enough to let her off a detention because he’s not giving her enough credit for being clever. Of course, that’s not the _point_ \- the point is that she’ll never get better if he never tells her how, and what she’s doing wrong, but he doesn’t know that; he must think her so arrogant, so entitled-

“Don’t be ridiculous, Granger,” he says at last. “I said that your essay is promising because it is promising. I said your essay was good because it was good.”

“But they’re _not_ ,” she says desperately. “Not if I’m still falling short of getting it right. I just want to know how to be _better_.”

“And you want me to tell you how to? Spoon-feed you all the right answers? Weren’t you just insisting that you aren’t a helpless student?” Riddle says harshly. “As for Mr Malfoy, I think you’re clever enough to work out on your own why he is getting higher marks than he merits, Miss Granger. Merlin, at least, I hope you are. For your own sake. Do you ever ask yourself why you care _so very much_  about three marks in Defence Against the Dark Arts?” 

“No,” Hermione retorts. “My friends ask me that. And people who think I’m strange. Forgive me, but I didn’t think I’d be hearing it from my Professor.”

Professor Riddle inhales sharply. She hears him exhale, long and slow. Then, without warning, he has reached for the books balancing in her arms, relieving her of the weight.

“Careful with these,” he mutters. “They’re heavy.”

She wants to protest, but her muscles are sore, and she finds she isn’t at all motivated to insist that she continue to carry them.

She mutters a thank you, but Riddle is already walking again, rounding the corner. They’re closer to the Common Room than Hermione had thought, she notes, relieved. She still feels angry, but hurt and embarrassed, too. Merlin, why does she always feel the need to say something?  

“Why are you researching the Triwizard Tournament?” Professor Riddle says abruptly, and she is grateful to note that the sardonic edge to his voice is gone. He nods down at the books.

“Because Harry’s caught up in it now,” she says honestly. “He’s my friend. I want to help.”

“I see.”

They have reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. She is in her nightgown, and, upon spotting them, covers herself with her hands and turns pink.

“The hour is late,” she says pointedly, “Past curfew, I happen to know- yes, Professor Dumbledore notified _all_ the portraits. Why should I not leave you out in the cold for the night, the pair of you, hm?”

“Please, Lady,” Professor Riddle says politely, “I’m Professor Riddle. I required Miss Granger’s assistance with some research in the library this evening – extra credit, you understand. Please make an exception for her tonight. You will have my gratitude.”

“Professor? You don’t say,” the Fat Lady says, suddenly out of breath. She turns to Hermione. “They didn’t look like _this_ fifty years ago, darling, I’ll tell you that much.” The Fat Lady adjusts her nightgown, shy. “Will I see you here again, Professor?”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Hermione murmurs, low under her breath, but the soft laugh beside her lets her know that Riddle heard her.

“Time will tell, dear Lady,” Riddle says, properly putting it on now. He flashes her a truly disarming smile, and Hermione doesn’t know whether to be disgusted or enamoured. The Fat Lady opts enthusiastically for the latter.

“Very well,” she says, and she barely looks at Hermione even as she swings obligingly backward, making space for her to pass through. “Don’t be a stranger, now.”

Hermione is stunned.

A gentle cough brings her attention back to Professor Riddle, who is holding her books out for her.

“Oh, thank you!” Hermione says, and in the dark, her fingers brush his in her haste to take the pile off his hands.

It’s a curious feeling; one Hermione has had before- the moment your hand touches another’s, and it feels a little warm, a little inviting, yet at the same time, awfully uncomfortable. She steps back quick as she can.

“Of course.”

“I’ll- I’ll see you in class,” she says, smooth as she can.  

“Good night, Hermione.” His voice, of course, is nothing if not professional, and for that, Hermione is glad.  

“Good night.”

She feels the warmth of the fireplace the moment she steps past the Fat Lady, and as the painting swings back into position, she can just make out the bold woman’s voice, speaking to Professor Riddle-

“And then there were two.”

Shaking her head, and taking a moment to pity the Professor left out in the corridor, Hermione lugs herself up the stairs to the girls dormitory, taking care not to wake Ginny and Parvati on her way to bed. She is exhausted, as it happens, not that she had noticed. Her nerves, when talking to Riddle, kept fatigue at bay rather well. Still, sleep finds her the moment she allows her eyes to close.

When she dreams, it is of the Goblet of Fire. It is of Harry, screaming, tearing at his scar, as though he means to rip it off his forehead. It is of Draco Malfoy, top of the class, Riddle shaking his hand; a trophy. It is his voice, inexplicably gentle, but it feels like a threat just the same: “promising.”

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you to everybody who has left kudos and comments since the last update - I am so overwhelmed by your support. 
> 
> I feel like I owe you all some honesty, here: I definitely rushed this chapter, and might edit it if I find the time later in the week. Having said that, I hope it's still an enjoyable read! 
> 
> This chapter starts off a few weeks after the last - I'm really curious to see what you guys think of the new dynamic that's emerging between Hermione, Harry, and Riddle!

* * *

 

“ _Expelliarmus!”_ Harry shouts, and Ron’s wand is wrenched from his fingers by the force of it before he can say ‘ _Stupefy’_.

There is some scattered applause, though Harry looks anything but pleased with himself. Panting, he drops his wand-arm to his side at once, looking anywhere but at the boy across the room. Ron fixes Harry with a pointed glare before he bends to retrieve his wand.

“Again, Mr Weasley?” Professor Riddle drawls. He is seated with his legs propped up on his desk, one hand resting behind his head, enjoying the spectacle, it would seem. “A simple _protego_ and you’d still be in the fight.”  

Hermione hears a dreamy sigh coming from Lavender’s general direction. Evidently, _she_ is enjoying the spectacle, too. It took her time, of course, to recover from the emotional assault that is Riddle’s marking methodology, but it seems Lavender has decided that despite it, Professor Riddle holds some charm.  

“Didn’t exactly _know_ what he was going to cast, Professor,” Ron says defensively.

It has been three weeks since the Goblet of Fire decided that Harry Potter was to be its fourth champion, and three weeks since Ron Weasley had fallen out with him over it. Despite Hermione’s best efforts at diplomacy, there has been little in the way of improvement in that arena. The one thing that continues to unite Harry and Ron is that they are both terribly stubborn. They’ve resorted to passing messages to one another via Hermione, taking her for a common owl, she thinks dryly, but she delivers them despite her better judgment in the hope that eventually they’ll get tired of the bother and speak face to face.

Pitting them against each other in duelling practice isn’t exactly helping. Hermione bites her lip, silently begging Riddle to pick another pair. Harry and Ron are on their third round, and she is beginning to fear that Ron’s frustration will see him throw down his wand and raise his fists instead if Riddle doesn’t put an end to it.

“Didn’t know what he was going to cast?” Professor Riddle snorts. “I’m not convinced Potter is capable of casting a spell _other_ than _expelliarmus_ , if these duels are anything to go by. You’d make an appalling dark wizard, Mr Potter.”

“Thanks, Sir,” Harry says cheerfully.

The class holds its breath, awaiting a reprimand from the Professor.

Riddle, to almost everybody’s surprise, merely grins. 

There’s something else that’s changed in the past three weeks.

 “Touché, Mr Potter.” He clears his throat, eyes searching the class until they land on Hermione. “Speaking of people who’d make appalling dark wizards,” he inclines his head, “Miss Granger, would you care to show Weasley how it’s done?”

“I’ll swap in, Professor,” she says at once, grateful.

Even Ron seems merciful as he shuffles to his seat. He gives her a tortured look as she stands to take his place in the cleared space at the front of the classroom. He’ll have a lot to say about this after class, she thinks grimly. And she’ll have a lot of work to do trying to convince him that it’s not all somehow Harry’s fault. Hermione swallows.

She gives Professor Riddle a nod when she is in position, across the room and facing Harry. The Professor’s hand falls abruptly from where it has been resting behind his head, and he shifts so that he is sitting at the edge of his desk, leaning in.

 “Wands at the ready,” Riddle instructs.

Hermione gives Harry a small smile before elevating her elbow, wand loose in her fingers. She has duelled with Harry before, though not in a classroom. Last year, they had struck a deal. She helped him with the theoretical component of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and in turn, he practiced duels with her late into the night. Her _and_ Ron.

She _likes_ duelling with him. Because Harry would never throw a duel, and Hermione is too proud not to at least try to win. So neither one of them holds back. It is one of the few things, apart from this class, now, that makes Hermione truly feel challenged – duelling Harry.

‘It’s on,’ Harry mouths across the room. His eyes glint, mischievous.

“Begin.”  Riddle’s voice, clear, sharp, brings her into focus.

“ _Locomotor Mortis,”_ Hermionie utters, quickly as she can manage, and Harry, half-way to casting a _reducto_ , freezes where he stands, legs locked.

_“Stupefy!”_ Harry yells.

_“Protego!”_ she cries out, just in time, commanding a silver-white shield to take the hit in her place.

_“Expelliarmus!”_

Hermione strains to maintain her _protego_ ; she feels the force of Harry’s spell collide with hers, magic on magic. She shivers at the sensation.  

_“Stupefy!”_

He casts it just as Hermione’s shield falters, and something that feels so very tangible, but isn’t, knocks hard into her middle, winding her. She falls to her knees with an unpleasant slam.

Some distant part of her mind register’s Malfoy’s snickers in the back of the room. This must be a win-win kind of duel for him, she thinks wryly. He gets to cheer when she’s down, and laugh with glee when Harry is.

Harry’s leg-locker jinx is wearing off, now. He’s managed to drag his right leg forward, to bend it. He brings his arm back over his head, clenching his wand, in perfect duelling stance for the next curse -

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione glimpses Professor Riddle’s quills: about twelve of them, all lined up in an orderly fashion on his desk. Her mind starts frantically weaving something together; a plan.  She staggers to her feet, knees aching.

“ _Accio quills,”_ she murmurs, soft, so that Harry can’t hear. She needs this to catch him off-guard. In an instant, Riddle’s quills are in the air, hurtling themselves towards her until they are hovering not an inch from her chest.

“ _Oppugno_ ,” Hermione commands, before Harry has time to process what it is that she means to do. He is eyeing the quills with confusion and humour in equal measure. Brandishing her wand with a fierce flourish, the spell is done; the quills are launching themselves across the room, nibs sharp and facing Harry, like a half-dozen arrows launched from a bow.

Harry’s eyes widen.

Hermione would wager that he has about five seconds to act; five seconds to cast a _Protego_ – the shield will be strong enough to protect him from the quills, but not from the disarming spell that she will send his way directly after.

_This is how she wins._

A feeling of satisfaction settles in her chest, and some part of her in the back of her mind is wondering whether Professor Riddle will be pleased with her performance.

But,

“ _Expelliarmus!”_ Harry cries out, and before Hermione has time to register what that means, what he has done, the fact that he hasn’t done anything to stop the army of quills that she sent to him, and now,  does not have time to, she feels her wand slip from her fingers, hears it clatter to the floor.

_Disarmed._

And that means she can’t protect him, either.

“Harry, look out!” she cries, and, not particularly wanting to see her friend skewered by Professor Riddle’s writing utensils, she closes her eyes.

“Oh my,” she hears Parvati say- though she does not sound horrified. More so, impressed. Why does she sound _impressed_?

It is then that Hermione realises that she never heard the collision of Harry and quills.

Cautiously, Hermione opens her eyes.

Sure enough, Harry is rooted to the spot, panting, but distinctly un-skewered. The quills, meanwhile, are frozen, just millimetres from his face. Between them, a shield of vibrant white, though a _protego_ had not been uttered- not by Harry, not Hermione, not anyone.

“That’s quite enough,” Professor Riddle says, though he sounds rather entertained. “You can wipe that look off your face, Mr Potter. I won’t have you spoil my quills today.”

He jerks his head, and without a word, his quills glide back to their place at his desk, settling comfortably onto the dark wood.

_Oh_.

Of course. It could only have been him.

“Was that a non-verbal shield?” Seamus asks, awestruck.

“Indeed,” Riddle says breezily. “Granger, Potter, you may sit. I’ll consider this duel a tie, given Mr Potter would be a human pin-cushion without my intervention. Five points to Gryffindor to the pair of you - for remembering to bring your minds as well as your wands to the duel- a rare combination in this class, as I’m discovering.” He casts a scathing look over the room. “I suggest you all practice rigorously if you expect to do well in the next class. Class dismissed.”

* * *

 

Not a moment later, Hermione rushes to Harry, weaving between Neville and Parvati on their way out to reach him.

“I’m so sorry Harry!”

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry says in earnest, “that was brilliant, Hermione. Where the hell did you get that idea, anyway?”

Over Harry’s shoulder, Hermione spots Ron, standing by the open door with his bag slung across his shoulder. He is looking at her, expectant, until he glimpses between she and Harry. A shadow falls over his face, and Ron goes on his way, closing the door behind him.

Hermione feels a pang of something like guilt.

“I don’t know,” she says, tearing her attention away from Ron. “You were so quick, I thought you surely had me- unless I did something that you wouldn’t expect. Then I noticed the quills.” She shrugs. “Not that it worked, in the end. I thought you would cast _protego_! It was supposed to be your only possible choice- I didn’t _really_ want you to be hit! Only distracted.”

“I should’ve used _protego_ ,” Harry says. “Truth is, I panicked. Voldemort’s never sent a bunch of quills after me before.”

Hermione laughs at that.

“Perhaps he should’ve.” It’s Professor Riddle, voice coloured with dry amusement.

He is still perched at the edge of his desk, legs dangling over and swinging, restless: Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever seen him properly still; if he’s not polishing his wand, he’s turning it over in his fingers, adjusting his quills, flicking through a book.

“You’re not going to tell me not to say his name, Professor?” Harry says, surprised, and perhaps impressed.

Professor Riddle tilts his head.

“On the contrary, I think it’s quite proper of you,” he says. “Besides, fear of a name only invites fear of the thing itself. Are you afraid of Lord Voldemort?”

He says it delicately, almost gently. Hermione shudders anyway. After all, it’s still his name, that _name_ \- fear punctuates her pulse.

 It proves Professor Riddle’s theory rather well, she thinks.

Before she met Harry, Hermione had only seen You Know Who’s name in writing. That is how she learned of him, of course. Nobody thought to make polite small talk about a homicidal Dark Wizard as part of telling an eleven-year-old girl all about the magical world she’s about to live in. So Hermione did what she always did; she read.

 It wasn’t in any of the prescribed textbooks – her mother had allowed her two extra, for background reading, so that she didn’t miss anything. The one with _his_ story had a red cover. It was written by an Auror responsible for capturing Death Eaters, after he fell. She remembers reading about him, the Dark Wizard who terrorised England, and the world. She read about the way he would have hated her; how he loathed Muggles and Muggle-Borns alike. How he thought of them as lesser. How he was obsessed with power, with immortality. How he tortured thousands into submission, whole families, senselessly. How he feared no witch or wizard alive but Albus Dumbledore. How he went into a house in Godric’s Hollow one night, to do the same to a family called the Potters. She remembers reading his name, by candlelight under her bedsheets at home, mum and dad watching telly downstairs, convinced that she is sound asleep. She remembers the way the fine hairs at the back of her neck stood up at the sight out it, that cruel name. She remembers almost _whispering_ it to herself in the dark, but something had stopped her- some instinctive sense of taboo that she still doesn’t understand.

“Of course I am, Sir,” Harry says simply. “I think that’s why I have to say it.”

Professor Riddle surveys Harry, a pensive look about him.

“Interesting,” he says. He turns to Hermione. “On the topic of interesting things,” he grins, showing all his teeth- all, obviously, _obviously_ , perfectly straight and bright white, “That was quite the show, Miss Granger. Tell me, do I have to fear for my quills when you’re around now?”

 “Sorry, Professor,” she says sheepishly, “I confess, I hadn’t quite thought it all through.”

“You did well to improvise,” he says firmly. “Half the challenge in a duel is anticipating your opponent’s moves. Fortunately for anybody to ever face Potter, that’s made quite easy by his loyalty to e _xpelliarmus_.”

Hermione laughs despite herself.

“It’s the most useful spell!” Harry protests, though even he can’t help but grin.  

“I have to agree with Harry,” Hermione says, “It’s not violent or provocative in the slightest, and it puts an immediate end to the fight- or at least a pause. Your opponent is quite useless without a wand. Unless, of course-”

She still sees Riddle’s shield, bright and brilliant and appearing altogether out of nothing and nowhere, no wand, no incantation needed.

“Unless your opponent is competent in non-verbal magic,” Riddle finishes her sentence. “And know that if they are anybody you ought to be worried about duelling, they certainly will be. Though you’ll hardly have to worry about any of that for the purposes of the Tournament, Potter.”

At the mention of the Tournament, Harry’s face turns grim.

“Non-verbal magic or not, I’m not particularly concerned about beating the others, Professor,” he admits. “I’ll be pleased if I manage to keep all four of my limbs.”

“Harry,” Hermione says sharply, “You mustn’t think like that.”

“Indeed,” Professor Riddle says. “No need to be nearly so dramatic, Mr Potter. With due preparation, you won’t be losing any limbs.”

“With all due respect, Professor,” Harry says, “How am I meant to prepare for something when I have no clue what it might be?”

“The same way that you prepare for exams,” Hermione suggests. “You look at the kinds of tests that have been set in the past- in the old Tournaments. You see if there’s been something in common with all of them. You make sure you know how to get through all those past challenges. That way, you’ll at least be a little prepared for whatever you do face.”

Professor Riddle gives her a satisfied nod.  

“That may be what you do to prepare for exams, Hermione,” Harry says, “The rest of us just sort of cross our fingers.”

“You’re not crossing your fingers this time, Harry,” Hermione says firmly. “This could be your life.”

“And, I daresay, much like with exams, Mr Potter, you are not preparing alone,” Professor Riddle says, with a pointed look at Hermione that makes her feel peculiarly pleased with herself.

She and Harry stay in that classroom, talking with Professor Riddle, until Professor Flitwick’s second year class starts to spill in from the outside corridors, and the Charms Professor greets them with a fond smile.

“Ah, Mr Potter, Miss Granger. Do you ever leave Professor Riddle’s side?” he says chirpily.

“Thorns in my side, the two of them, as it were,” Professor Riddle’s lip curls up.

“We really should be going, though,” Hermione says. “Thank you Professor Riddle- Professor Flitwick.” She inclines her head politely.

She and Harry shuffle out of class late, the Professors bidding them farewell, for the sixth consecutive time.

* * *

 

If Hermione were to place her finger on it, if she were to explain _why_ she and Harry had started to linger after Defence Against the Dark Arts, she would first say that it had something to do with why Riddle had asked Harry to stay behind three weeks ago.

 It had plagued her mind, that night in the library, miscellaneous theories and concerns keeping her mind humming. The very next morning, though, Harry had put her mind at ease.

“He just – wanted to express _support_?” Hermione had said, puzzled, when he had told her what had transpired over breakfast in a hushed voice.

“Yeah,” Harry had replied, just as confused as she was. “Honestly, I thought he was going to interrogate me about bewitching the Goblet. But he just said that everyone’s being sensationalist idiots, and I shouldn’t let it get to me.”

“He said that?”  
“He said that.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Hermione had said, and she had thought about the Professor that night, about how he had walked her to the Gryffindor Common Room. How he lied to the Fat Lady so that she wasn’t condemned to spend the night on the corridor floor. How she had thought that he was almost being _kind_ , but that it didn’t make sense, because how could a kind person teach the way he did, the _spells_ he did?

Maybe, she thought, for the first time, it did make sense, after all.

The second thing that endeared her to the Professor followed soon after – at the very beginning of the last lesson of the week. He had been handing back their homework, marked, and Hermione felt inexplicably nervous. She was embarrassed, still, by the way she had behaved in the corridors that night, demanding that Professor Riddle explain himself. She was annoyed, albeit a little flattered, that he had approved of her unfinished work. And she was still trying to make sense of something else he said.

_As for Mr Malfoy, I think you’re clever enough to work out on your own why he is getting higher marks than he merits, Miss Granger._

But she _wasn’t_. She mustn’t be, because she had spent all week mulling it over, and she still didn’t know why. The best she could come up with was that Professor Riddle knew that the Malfoys put a lot of money into Hogwarts, and he wanted to get them on-side by turning their son into a successful student in his class. But Hermione couldn’t see Professor Riddle hesitating to give anybody poor marks if they deserved them, no matter how powerful their family.

He started at the back of class, where Malfoy sat with Goyle to his right and Blaise Zabini on his left. The usual groans came from Goyle and Zabini as they took in their papers, scribbled over and marked with a failing grade. Only this time was different. This time, Malfoy joined them.

“Professor!” he had said, voice unusually high as it cut across the room, “there must be some mistake.”

Professor Riddle had glanced at him coolly.

“Several mistakes, actually,” he said conversationally, “in your essay. Hence your rather disappointing grade, Mr Malfoy.”

The whispers, gasps, that litter the classroom at that saw Malfoy turn scarlet.

“Sir,” Malfoy had said, lowering his voice this time, “I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything different.”

“That, Mr Malfoy, is precisely the problem,” Riddle said simply. “But I lack the time and the desire to embarrass you by elaborating in front of your classmates. If you have further questions, see me after.”

Ron muffled a laugh.

  
Hermione’s head was positively spinning. It was awful, she knew, to feel any sense of satisfaction at somebody else’s failure. But this was _Malfoy_ , and after her talk with Professor Riddle- well, it seemed the Professor never _thought_ he deserved to do quite so well in any case.

She was in such deep thought that she didn’t register Professor Riddle approaching her table.

“Miss Granger,” he had said, clearing his throat to alert her to the paper he was holding out to her. She had met his eyes when she took it, tried to read them. All she remembers now is that they were very bright.

When Hermione drew in a breath and looked down, the word _brilliant_ stared back at her, along with a nearly perfect mark – she was only one off – and, to her supreme surprise, _more_ writing, scrawled beneath. _Feedback._

_Biased language undermines your argument. Otherwise, brilliant means brilliant, Granger._

She couldn’t help herself: she smiled.

Of course, Hermione still doesn’t quite know why Professor Riddle ever did give Malfoy better marks than he deserved- why he ever gave him _her_ marks. She hasn’t stopped wondering, either. But she resolved that day not to ask him again, if it meant maintaining this fragile piece of calm, of amicability, between herself and Professor Riddle.

It was the next lesson that she and Harry first found themselves dawdling after class. The first time that they had found themselves in no hurry to leave, after. The first time Professor Flitwick had marched in with his class, confused at the sight of Harry and Hermione deep in discussion with the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. It is as comfortable as it is unsettling, of course, because Professor Riddle is still _formidable_ ; still knows how to be harsh, how to push them.

“I don’t understand how much everyone complains about Riddle,” Harry says, now they’re out of the Professor’s earshot and headed to the Common Room. “He’s tough, yeah, but so is McGonagall. They’re both good teachers because of it.”

“Teacher’s aren’t allowed to help you,” somebody says, and Hermione and Harry stop in their tracks to face a tall boy in Hufflepuff yellow robes. Hermione has never seen him before. “With the Tournament, I mean. So it’s no good sucking up to Riddle and McGonagall, Potter. Hogwarts only has room for one Champion, anyway.”

The boy grins, adjusting something fixed to his robes. It’s then that Hermione sees it: a rather ugly green badge, the words ‘Potter Stinks’ flashing on display.

“Oh, honestly,” Hermione says bitingly, “Haven’t you got better things to do with your time?”

“I don’t know,” the boy sneers, “I figured Potter here would have better things to do with his time than rig the Goblet of Fire. Maybe we’ve all got a bit too much time on our hands.”

Hermione sees Harry’s fingers closed tight into fists. He doesn’t say anything, to his immense credit. He’s tired, she thinks, of saying that he didn’t do it, like a broken record that nobody bothered listened to the first time.

“Xavier,” somebody says, approaching from behind, “What’s going on here?”

It’s Cedric Diggory.

He wears his robes well, hanging off broad shoulders, and he walks with his head up, the picture of boyish confidence. He is smiling, too, always smiling – the polar opposite of Krum. That smile falters when he sees Harry.

“Just asking why Potter hasn’t dropped out of the Tournament yet,” the boy- Xavier- says conversationally. He points again to his badge.

Cedric’s mouth twitches, and for a moment, Hermione thinks that he is going to laugh. Her chest swells, angry.

But then something else happens.

Then, Cedric frowns.

“You ‘right, Potter?” he says.

“Um,” Harry looks about as bewildered as Hermione feels, “Yeah.”

“Xavier’s sorry,” Cedric says. “He doesn’t want any trouble. Do you, Xavier?”

Xavier groans.

“Come off it, Ced,” he says. “Everyone knows he did it.”

“Nobody knows that, Xavier. Professor Riddle’s tests didn’t show any signs of foul play, you know that,” Cedric says firmly.

“Look, Cedric,” Harry says dully, “It’s fine. Really. I don’t care.”

Cedric purses his lips, narrows his eyes as they meet Harry’s. He looks at the other boy for a long time.

“I see,” he says at last. He blinks at Hermione, then, as though he’s only now noticed that she’s there. “Alright, Granger?”

“Hello, Cedric,” she says. “Best of luck with the first task.”

Cedric’s smile is back in place, and Hermione remembers when she had first seen it, how she had flushed; how she had immediately exchanged a look with Ginny.

“Thank you, Granger. We’ll see, won’t we Potter?” he grins.

Harry isn’t smiling, not that Hermione can fault him for that. In fact, he looks rather unwell.

“Yeah,” he says. “We’ll see.”

* * *

 

Hermione walks in to Defence Against the Dark Arts with Ron today. He’s cold, at first; bitter about the time she’s spent with Harry. But when he warms up, starts telling her all about how his mum’s getting excited about the Yule Ball, how she sent Ginny a long letter about how she had some marvellous dress robes just for the occasion, Hermione remembers why she likes spending time with Ron Weasley.

“-got a bad feeling about this, Hermione,” he says seriously. “When my brother Charlie graduated from Hogwarts, mum tried to buy him dress-robes. They were horrible- looked like some lacy frock, it did. He would’ve been a joke. Fred and George and me intervened, so he’s got us to thank for the fact that he wasn’t preserved looking like some old bat in his graduation pictures forever.”

Hermione stifles a laugh.

“Don’t be silly, Ron,” she says. “I’m sure Molly has something lovely sorted out for you – it’s sweet that she’s so excited. I’ve no idea what you’re supposed to wear to a Yule Ball. Not that I’m likely to go, anyway.” She shrugs.

“You’ve got to,” Ron says at once. “C’mon, Hermione. It’s meant to be fun. I know _you_ reckon study’s a real hoot, but everyone likes a ball. What’s _not_ to like? There’s food, music, dancing – mum even said that there might be Firewhisky.”

“ _Firewhisky_?” Hermione says sardonically, “ _Now_ I’m interested.”

Ron grins, and Hermione pushes the classroom door open-

They stare, confused, at the entirely empty space in front of them.

Every desk, every chair, even Professor Riddle’s, is gone, leaving nothing but bare, stone floors between the door and the windows.

Professor Riddle has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and is standing in the middle of the room, wand at hand.

A handful of people walk in a moment after they do- Harry arriving with Neville.

“What’s going on, Professor?” Harry asks.

“A rather different lesson,” Professor Riddle replies. “One that you won’t be needing your desks for. Everybody, if you could stand at the back of the room, and make as little noise as possible.”

“As little noise as possible?” Ron mumbles in Hermione’s ear. “My parents used to play that game with us when we were little. Oldest trick in the book.”

Hermione bites back laughter, and Professor Riddle shoots her a warning look. She mouths an apology and resolves not to make a sound.

By the time the rest of the class file in – Malfoy arriving last, with a foul look on his face- the suspense is nagging at Hermione, at all of them.

“Alright,” Professor Riddle says, finally, “As I dearly hope you’ve noticed, students, I have been attempting to train you to respond to real threats with duelling practice. The problem, however, with merely pairing you up with one another in duels, is that none of you are very good.” He says it bluntly. “Typically, when you are in a position so as to be defending yourself against the dark arts, your opponent will _not_ be a bored sixth year student. It won’t do to simply prepare you to fight your neighbour. Today, I want you to know what that means.”

“We’re not going to be duelling with _you_ , Professor?” Lavender says, _hopefully_ , as though she can’t imagine a better start to the day than to have Riddle throw hexes at her.

Ron’s face turns red as he tries to contain his laughter.

Professor Riddle raises a single eyebrow at Lavender, an amused sort of smile touching his lips.

“All in good time, Miss Brown,” he says. “No, today, I’ve got a rather special guest.” He clears this throat, looking expectantly to the door. “Hagrid? Gamekeeper?”

Hermione is surprised and delighted in equal measure to see Hagrid’s great frame approaching. His hair is as untamed as ever- rather like her own, she supposes reluctantly – and he is hauling something behind him on wheels: a cage, with a large blanket covering it over. Something heavy, if the layer of sweat gleaming on his cheeks is anything to go by. Hagrid beams at the sight of her, and everything about his mountainous stature becomes terribly soft.

“’Ermione!” he says happily, and he is just as thrilled to spot Ron beside her. “Alright Ron? _Harry_! I didn’t know this was yer class.”

“Hagrid!” Ron says. “How’ve you been?”

“Thank you for coming, Hagrid,” Professor Riddle cuts in, forced politeness colouring his tone. He doesn’t respond to Hagrid’s grin with anything but a nod, Hermione notes with a frown. “I trust you’ve secured it properly, this time?” He jerks his head at the remarkably large cage that Hagrid is dragging behind him.

“Well ‘course I have,” Hagrid says proudly, giving the cage a whack. It trembles. “Yer lucky we found her – just beautiful, she is, wait ‘til you see.”

“Hagrid,” Harry says cautiously, “What’s in that?”

“A good question, Mr Potter,” Riddle says. “Ladies, gentlemen. I want you to become familiar with some of the dark forces that you may wish to defend yourselves from. It would be remiss to neglect to tell you about dark creatures. Your gamekeeper has kindly agreed to lend us one such creature today.”

“I dun’ know about dark, Professor,” Hagrid chuckles. “Polly here wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Riddle fixes Hagrid with an incredulous look.

“I’m sure,” he says thinly. “Hagrid, if you wouldn’t mind.”

At Riddle’s look, Hagrid nods and approaches the cage, gripping the cover that conceals the creature – Polly – from view.

He tugs.

Hermione’s heart skips a beat at the sight of her.

Curled up in that cage, straining in the limited space, is something impossible. Impossible because she almost looks like a large cat- legs strong, all muscle, nails curled and sharp. Impossible because she also rather reminds Hermione of a bird- yellow eyes piercing through feathers, staring out at them through the bars of the cage. There’s some force behind her gaze that Hermione can’t quite place. She looks proud, regal, almost, and Hermione is transfixed.

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispers beside her.

Polly’s head darts to one side, and she is looking out at them all as intently as they observe her.

All at once, she opens her mouth.

She _screams_.

* * *

 

It’s a terrible sound, one that chills Hermione to the bone. It is high, angry, like a bird circling its prey, shrieking, _‘got you got you got you_ ’, declaring it to all the skies.

Only, Polly is hardly the predator in this classroom.

Hermione winces into Ron’s shoulder, even as Professor Riddle starts to speak over Polly’s screaming.

“This is a _gryphon_ ,” he all but shouts, “The fiercest magical creature to reside in the Mediterranean. Half lion, and half eagle, the _gryphon_ is a proud animal, driven by a primal need to collect gold for its nest. If you should ever have the misfortune to offend a _gryphon’s_ pride, you will find yourself in a dangerous situation. The question is, students, how do you get out of it?”

“Ye’ve all got to stop looking at ‘er,” Hagrid says desperately, fingers plugged into his ears, blocking out the noise. “Yer scaring her, makin’ her nervous.”

Hermione drops her gaze immediately, gripping Ron’s wrist until he does the same. Sure enough, the screaming stops. Hermione exhales, grateful.

“Miss Granger,” Riddle says, and in the fresh silence, it feels jarringly loud. “Any ideas?”

Hermione hesitates. “I suppose with creatures like a _gryphon_ , there are really two ways out. First, you could appeal to their pride- flatter them. Offering gold or riches, showing respect, these things _could_ help you escape a confrontation.”

Riddle nods. “And the second way?”

“The second way,” Hermione says, sparing a guilty glance to the _gryphon_ \- her face is pressed against the cage now, but she only seems curious, long beak opening and closing, like somebody who wants to say something but is not quite sure how to put it. “Is to use trickery- lure the _gryphon_ will something that shines, or bribe it. Distract it from you so that you can escape.”

“Both perfectly legitimate methods, Miss Granger,” Riddle allows. “But I believe there are two alternatives that you’ve rather overlooked. Potter, could you tell me what these might be?”

Harry swallows. “Well, um. You could run away,” he says.

Riddle smirks.

“You’re not wrong, Potter,” he says. “But how? _Gryphons_ are fast.”

“But they can’t fly,” Hermione suggests suddenly, noting the way Polly’s feathers blend into golden fur at the shoulders, no wings in sight. “If you could cast a Levitation charm- or had some other means of flying available, a broom, for example, the _gryphon_ couldn’t possibly chase after you. I don’t think they’re particularly good swimmers, either, if you have that options available to you.”

Professor Riddle looks at her, and her heart stutters at the approval in his eyes as they behold her.

“Very good, Miss Granger,” he says, “Of course, there is another way- one that a wizard of the Light has no hope of surviving, and one that a Dark Wizard need not fear losing. Fight the _gryphon_.”

Hermione inhales sharply, suddenly nervous. Surely, she thinks, _surely_ that isn’t what Riddle means for _them_ to do?

“You mean you’d need to use Unforgiveable magic to win,” Harry says, curious.

“Just so, Mr Potter,” Riddle says, “A _gryphon_ will bounce most all other magic off with ease. The Unforgiveable Curses are the only spells ancient enough, powerful enough, to overcome such a formidable animal. Sometimes, only dark is capable of overcoming dark- or so the reasoning goes.”

_The Unforgiveable Curses._

Merlin. That’s exactly what he means for them to do.

Hermione feels ill.

“Unforgivable Curses?” Hagrid says hotly. “Yer kidding me. I- I won’t allow it.”

“Hagrid,” Riddle says calmly, “It is essential that I allow my students the chance to practice defence.”

“Not with Polly!” Hagrid says indignantly. “She’s just a _baby_.”

“Because an adult _gryphon_ is too dangerous to approach at all,” Professor Riddle says, “Isn’t that right, Hagrid?”

“Well, yeah,” Hagrid says, flustered, “but-”

“This is my classroom, Hagrid. And as the only staff here qualified to use magic, and teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, I’m afraid I have no choice but to ask that you leave.” He doesn’t say it angrily, loudly. That would have been better. Because when Professor Riddle speaks to Hagrid, his voice is calm, lazy. _Dismissive_. Yes, that is the word.

“Potter,” Professor Riddle begins, but before he can say another word, there is a cough from the door.

“Ah, Professor Riddle.” It’s Professor Dumbledore, dressed all in grey, face calm as he takes in the scene before him – Hagrid beside himself and clutching at the cage, Polly, yellow eyes flashing, within, and Professor Riddle’s class huddled together, frightened and in awe all at once. If he is surprised by the state of them, or concerned, he shows no sign of it.

“Headmaster,” Professor Riddle inclines his head. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I require one of your students,” Dumbledore says pleasantly. “Harry Potter. For a Daily Prophet interview, you understand. Rita Skeeter is as lovely as she is impatient, so time _is_ of the essence.”

Ron isn’t the only one looking daggers at Harry now. Hermione gives him an encouraging smile, but he is too busy staring at the floor to catch it.

“Of course Professor,” Riddle says, gesturing for Harry to go to Dumbledore.

The room is frozen, even Hagrid silent, as Harry makes for the door, determinedly not looking at anyone, even Dumbledore, on his way.

It is only when Hermione can no longer hear their footsteps that the class comes alive once more.

“I’m takin’ Polly back to the grounds,” Hagrid says determinedly.

“That really isn’t your choice to make, Hagrid,” Professor Riddle says coolly.

“Professor,” Hermione says, unable to help herself, “Please.”

Riddle’s eyes flash when they catch Hermione’s, and they remind her of Polly’s –the way there is _power_ in them. In an instant, he is standing in front of her, close enough that she can feel his breath.

“Please, _what_?” he says delicately. He is assessing her, she can tell. _Testing_ her. He was so disappointed, after all, that first lesson, the first time Hermione had ever seen Unforgiveable magic. Perhaps he wants to know if she is still as limited as she had been that day.

Hermione swallows, thinking fast.

“Wouldn’t it be better to start on dummies? Or creatures that are weaker than _gryphons_? Not everybody can manage to cast an Unforgiveable Curse, and in order to do so, you need to overcome the mind- the body- of your target. Even a baby _gryphon_ is strong to start with. Perhaps we ought to work _up_ to Polly.”

She does not like the way that Hagrid is looking at her, now.

Like she’s somebody he has seen before, but he can’t remember where, or when – can’t quite place who she is.

The way that Professor Riddle looks at her now, though, is enough to push it from her mind.

Because his lips are parted, if only a little, eyes scanning over her face slow, this _look_ in them that renders her oddly numb. Like he is _proud_ of her – properly proud, not merely reluctantly acknowledging that she isn’t an idiot, as she has come to take as a compliment, coming from _him_.

“What if I say you _are_ ready?” he murmurs, and she isn’t sure if he means to speak to the class, or to her alone.

He is so _close_ , and Hermione wants to scold herself, because she finds herself thinking that he looks awfully handsome from where she’s standing. Because that’s not _important_ and he’s her _Professor_ and he wants them to learn Unforgiveable magic for Merlin’s sake- if he knew that she only said what she said to satisfy him, to make him leave Hagrid, and Polly, alone-

“Please, Professor,” she says, voice too weak, but he is still _looking_ at her, and it’s the best she can manage.

Nobody says a word for a long time, not even Hagrid, who has moved to stand protectively in front of his cage.

“Okay.”

He says it softly, so much so that she can hardly hear it.

Professor Riddle steps back, and the spell breaks. Hermione can breathe again, think again. She coughs, cheeks heated as she begins to appreciate the fact that the entire class witnessed her _pleading_ with their Professor.

Riddle clears his throat.

“Hagrid,” he says, “Miss Granger makes a valid point. If you would be so good as to escort the _gryphon_ back to the grounds.”

Hagrid looks relieved, albeit cautiously so.

“’Course, Professor,” he says.

“Wonderful,” Riddle says, and, with a tight smile, he turns to his class. “You’re all dismissed early on account of this change in plans. When you return, do so with an open mind. To understand how to counter dark with light, you first have to know how to do so with dark.”

There’s a relieved sort of hum of talk that fills the room the moment Riddle stops talking, and, without Harry, Hermione begins to follow Ron out the door.

“Miss Granger,” Professor Riddle says abruptly, “If you’ll stay behind to assist Hagrid.”

Hermione stops, glances back at the Professor.

Ron has a strange look about him.

“I’m sorry, Ron,” she says, “I’ll catch up with you lunch.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, only half-listening to her. He is looking at Professor Riddle. “Just be careful, will you?”

“Careful?” Hermione frowns.

It’s what she said to Harry, she remembers, when Riddle first asked him to stay behind. But she is on rather amicable terms with Riddle, now. There’s no cause for concern.

“It’s alrigh’, ‘Ermionie,” Hagrid says. “Don’t you worry. I can take Polly down on me own. You run along now.”

“I thought time was of the essence, Hagrid,” Professor Riddle says. “Haven’t you got rather a lot on your plate?”

“Ah, it’s not been easy, Professor,” Hagrid says honestly. “I’ll be bloody glad when this Tournament business is over, I will. At least this first task.”

“The first task?” Hermione says, leaning in. “Are you doing something for the first task, Hagrid?”

Hagrid turns crimson.  
“I shouldn’t have said tha’,” Hagrid says, guilty. “Sorry, ‘Ermionie. Forget I said anything, yeah?”

In his haste to leave, Hagrid spins on the spot – and Hermione supresses a gasp.

The back of Hagrid’s hair is ruined- black, and shrivelled, somehow, curled up and thin. _Singed_.

* * *

 

“You were protecting him,” Riddle says, the moment Hagrid has crossed the room, heaving poor Polly along with him.

“What?”

“The Gamekeeper,” Riddle jerks his head in Hagrid’s direction. “Why?”

“Why were _you_ being so awful to him?” Hermione retorts.

“Awful?” Riddle raises his eyebrows. He looks like he might laugh.

“Rude,” Hermione says. “You were rude to him. Hagrid loves those creatures, everybody knows that. Even if it is going to get him killed. Did you see his _hair_?”

“I did,” Riddle says. “Perhaps he’s been too busy loving his creatures to have noticed.”

Hermione glares at him.

“Professor,” she says, careful broaching the subject, “I- of course, I know that you can’t tell students anything about the first task, but- Hagrid said he was involved.”

“He did,” Riddle says simply.

“It’s a creature, then,” Hermione guesses. “It must be. But it can’t be a _gryphon_ – can it? Because you wouldn’t have been allowed to show a class with Harry in it a gryphon the week before the first task.”

“I’m sure I can’t comment, Granger,” Riddle says, but he quirks an eyebrow at her – a challenge.

“What, then? It can’t be too dangerous, surely? I know there was a chimera, once – but it ripped a girl’s head off, it can’t possibly be used again. But it’s dangerous enough to be giving Hagrid difficulties…” Hermione isn’t quite sure why she is doing this; thinking out loud in front of a Professor who’s obliged not to confirm or deny any theory she comes up with.

“Quite so,” he muses, folding his arms across his chest. “So, what do you think?”

“I think…” Hermione purses her lips. “I think…”

And then her blood runs cold.

“I think Hagrid’s hair was burnt,” she says slowly. “Very burnt. And I can only think of one kind of creature that can do that.”

Riddle’s eyes are very bright.  
“And what creature is that, Granger?”

Hermione swallows, surveying his face for a reaction when she says it.

“Dragon.”

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and thank you for being here! 
> 
> I really want to express my gratitude to everybody who has read Renatus so far, left kudos, or subscribed. I would particularly like to thank those of you who have commented and shared your thoughts! I genuinely love to hear them. 
> 
> There have been some questions raised about why everyone (especially Dumbledore) is acting like Professor Riddle is just your regular, wholesome Professor fresh from Ilvermorny when we all know that he went to Hogwarts, is the Heir of Slytherin, and is also literally Voldemort. I figured that's a very reasonable thing to be wondering about, so I'll answer that question here in case anyone else is curious: that whole aspect of the story is definitely going to be addressed, and is a MAJOR plot point. It's not just being brushed under the carpet, don't worry! This is also not a convenient AU where Dumbledore didn't know Tom Riddle at school, or where Tom Riddle didn't go to Hogwarts etc.. To avoid any doubt, Renatus takes place in the canonical world where Tom Riddle did go to Hogwarts when Dumbledore and others were there. However, it will be a little while before the answer is revealed. 
> 
> Apologies for the delayed publication of this chapter- it's been a hectic week. I hope you enjoy it. As always, I would love to hear what you think, so please don't hesitate to comment! 
> 
> Oh, and for those of you who have been waiting for it, the next two chapters, rest assured, are going to be all about the Yule Ball.

* * *

 

“It’s a _dragon_ ,” Hermione repeats, and she _knows_ she is right.

She knows because Hagrid flushed at the mention of the first task, because he didn’t say a word about the disastrous state of the back of his head. She knows because Professor Riddle _isn’t_ laughing her out of the room right now, isn’t saying anything at all.

“But- no. That’s so _dangerous_.”

Professor Riddle’s mouth twitches.

“I think you’ll find that’s rather the point.”

Hermione shakes her head, and she imagines a beast - great, dark talons curled in, scales the size of her fist gleaming in the sun, wings that could spread across the length of the room, _teeth_ that could- that could-

“Harry can’t fight a _dragon_ ,” she cries, “That’s – Merlin.”

She narrows her eyes at Professor Riddle, then, as the full meaning of his words begins to sink in.

 “Professor…did you just- _confirm_? That it’s a dragon?”

“Did I?” Professor Riddle says mildly.

“You can’t do that!” Hermione says spiritedly. “It’s against the rules- it’s _cheating_.”

Riddle grins. His hands slide into his coat pockets.  

“Not the _rules_ ,” he says.  

He’s mocking her, she realises. A _Professor_ , and he’s mocking _her_ for caring to follow protocol. She shouldn’t be surprised, she supposes, what with his eagerness to have them all performing _crucio_ on a creature called _Polly_.

She huffs, folding her arms tight across her chest and fixing Riddle with a pointed look.

“It isn’t funny,” she says. “Harry could get into a lot of trouble if anybody knew that he found out what the first task is early.”

“He could,” Professor Riddle muses, “ _if_ somebody told Potter. But I’ve not said a word to him, and frankly, Granger, the imputation that I would is wildly inappropriate.”

“But-” Hermione says indignantly, but she cannot find the words to finish her sentence because, well, he’s _right_.

Harry doesn’t know a thing, and Riddle is not going to tell him a _thing_. She is the one who has to keep her mouth shut. She _has_ to, or she’s the one rigging the game. She _has_ to, or Harry could get in even more trouble.

But it’s a dragon, and how can she hold her tongue when it is a _dragon_ , and she _knows_ that Harry, bold as he is, brave as he is, wouldn’t have a clue how to handle one?

“If it was a dragon,” Riddle says calmly, “and no, that’s not a confirmation, Granger, so if you’ll kindly stop _frowning_ at me as though it is – _if_ it was a dragon, I dare say that even if somebody did tell Potter about it now, he’d still be arriving rather late to the party.”

Hermione frowns.

“Meaning?”

“Karkaroff,” Professor Riddle elaborates, enunciating slowly, carefully, as though to ensure that she appreciates his each and every inflection, “is staking his _reputation_ on this Tournament. On Viktor Krum- his prodigee, and the only Durmstrang student in years who’s had much in the way of potential. If Krum embarrasses him, it will not reflect at all well on Karkaroff. And Madam Maxime cares about her students, to a fault. She isn’t the type to allow her dear Champion to walk into a deadly Tournament without an _advantage_ , of sorts. If there’s an advantage to be had.”

It takes Hermione all of a moment to catch on.

“They know,” she says, appalled. “You’re saying that Karkaroff and Maxime figured it out, and so their Champions already _know_.”

“I am not saying _anything_ , Miss Granger,” Riddle corrects her, but his eyes, bearing intently into hers, sing a rather different song altogether.  

Hermione is furious.

 Furious because who on _earth_ are they, to gaslight Harry, to accuse _him_ of cheating, _Hogwarts_ of cheating, only to take the first opportunity they got to give their _own_ Champions an advantage, a head-start in a reckless game?

Hermione meets Riddle’s gaze, jaw locked in her anger.

She swallows.

“I see.”

“Good.”

Hermione hesitates. She wants to ask Professor Riddle what she should do; not that it much matters. She knows _exactly_ what she’s going to do now. What she always would have done. This only makes it easier on her conscience.

“I should go,” she says.

Something like a smile tugs at Riddle’s lips.

“So you should.”  

Hermione is half-turned around when she stops, casting a look at Professor Riddle over her shoulder. He is looking out the window, at nothing in particular, it would seem.

“You asked me to stay behind,” she says, “to help Hagrid.”

“Yes.”

When he glances back her, his features are devoid of any feeling, any hint that he knows what she is really asking him. 

“You wanted us to learn about fighting magical creatures,” she goes on, waiting for him to confirm what she’s already decided in her own mind is true.

“Until you so rudely intervened,” he qualifies. “Is there a reason you’re telling me all the things I’ve said this lesson, Granger?”

Hermione smiles.

_You’re trying to help Harry._

To say it out loud, she knows, would be a mistake. He would deny it of course, it would only be proper to. But Professor Riddle defended Harry from Malfoy and Ron, that lesson after his name emerged from the embers of the Goblet of Fire. He dragged Hagrid into the castle, knowing he was involved in the first task – and he knew, he _must_ have known, that Hagrid can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life. He took them through all the methods you might use to escape a _gryphon_ , and after Harry left, he asked _Hermione_ to stay behind- his friend, his _only_ friend, now- to talk to Hagrid. He did all these things, and now, he won’t quite meet her eyes. If Hermione didn’t know any better, she’d say his cheeks are almost pink.

Some feeling of warmth, of comfort, soothes her anxious heart, now; tells her that she is _right_ about this, as she was right about the dragon, and she wants to say thank you. She wants to ask why. She wants to _stay_ , pick his brain about strategies, ask him _more_ about how much the others know.

“Have a good afternoon, Professor,” is all she says.

* * *

 

When Hermione finally spots Harry, pacing on his own beside the Black Lake, it is only a great deal of self-restraint that stops her from running at him with such force that he topples over at contact.  

“ _Harry_ ,” she says urgently, catching his arm in her hands the moment she reaches him, “Harry, _there_ you are! I’ve been looking absolutely everywhere for you.”

“Sorry,” he says, “I was stuck with this horrible reporter – Rita Skeeter, I think she was called – for ages. I’ve got a bad feeling about the article she’s about to publish about me, Hermione. First off, she had this really _weird_ quill-”

“Never-mind Rita Skeeter,” Hermione says impatiently, “Harry, I _know_ something. About the first task. And you mustn’t tell anybody that I’m telling you – truthfully, I really shouldn’t be telling you anything- but Krum and Fleur Delacour already know, and it would be so unfair if they knew and you didn’t!”

Harry freezes, and Hermione suspects Rita Skeeter is the furthest thing from his mind right now. At the mention of the first task, his expression darkens.

“What?”

“I’m almost positive,” Hermione says quickly. “And Harry- it’s… you’ll be fine, I promise, and I’ll help you, but-”

“Spit it out, Hermione,” Harry says tiredly.

Hermione takes a moment to look at him, really look. There are dark lines etched firm under his eyes from too many sleepless nights; his cheeks are awfully pale, and his glasses are half-fogged up. She draws in a breath, trying to break the news as gently as is possible.

“Dragons,” she says calmly. “I think you’re going to have to fight a dragon, Harry.”

Harry’s clenching throat is the only thing that gives away his fear. For the most part, he only looks numb to the news.

“How do you know?” he asks finally.

“Hagrid,” she says. “He let slip that he’s working on the first task- preparing something. And his hair was burnt, properly burnt. Only a dragon could have done that. Professor Riddle’s the one who said the others already know- well, he implied it. I think he’s trying to help, Harry. I think he _wanted_ Hagrid to slip up.”

Harry glances across the Lake, expression unreadable.

“Dragons,” he says, and he laughs without a great deal of humour. “Blimey, Hermione.”

Hermione grips his arm tight.

“I _know_ ,” she says. “But Harry, we can work with this. Come with me to the library now, and we can figure something out- a proper plan.”

“Yeah,” Harry says bitterly. “That’s all I need. A _plan_.”

Hermione lets go of his arm, hurt- and she knows that she has no right to be hurt; that Harry has every right to feel angry, that it not _her_ he’s angry with.

“I’m trying to help you,” she says softly.  

Harry exhales heavily.

“I know. Thank you, Hermione. Really, thanks.” He sighs. “I just- think I need to be alone for a bit. Can I meet you in the library in an hour?”

Hermione hesitates, loath to leave him alone, but the look on his face tells her that Harry is in no mood to bicker.

What would she do, she wonders absentmindedly, if the roles were reversed? If Harry had come running to tell her that she was to fight a dragon, and there was nothing she could do to change it?

“Alright,” she says reluctantly. “I’ll head up now, then. Just don’t stay out for long, Harry.” She draws in her own robes closer, glaring into the icy air. “It’s getting colder.”

* * *

 

“Potter!”

Harry closes his eyes, and, not for the first time, wonders if Hogwarts really is just out to fuck with him at this point.

He’s halfway from the Black Lake to the castle when he spots Draco Malfoy, legs dangling from the low-hanging branches of a tree, flanked by the motley crew that is Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini. Each one of them, he notices, is sporting an ugly-green ‘Potter Stinks’ badge.

 _At least somebody’s making a profit out of this whole Tournament business,_ he thinks dryly.

“Malfoy,” he says, just loud enough for them to hear, and he pushes past, not affording the other boys a glance.

Malfoy, naturally, has other plans.

Launching himself off the branch by his hands, Malfoy lands squarely in front of Harry with a dull _thunk_ and a satisfied grin.

“What’s the rush, Potter?” he says, his voice loud, _grating_ , as ever, “We haven’t had a proper chat in so long. My father’s been wondering after you. He and I have a bet, you see. I think you won’t last ten minutes in this Tournament.”

Malfoy’s flock of vultures, still perched on the branches behind him, laugh on cue.

“He disagrees,” Malfoy continues, growing louder, egged on - by the sound of their laughter, or perhaps the nasal noise of his own voice, “he thinks you won’t last _five_.”

At that, Goyle lets out a bark of laughter that bounces off the lake, echoing back at them, distorted, but mocking all the same.

Malfoy surveys Harry’s face, pleased with himself and looking to reap the rewards of his humour, looking for some indication that he _really showed Harry this time_.

It is too much.

Malfoy, on top of the Tournament, of Rita Skeeter, of Ron, of his _still_ aching scar, is too much. He is too tired, too irritated, too frightened, and it is infuriating.

So Harry takes a step closer to the blond boy, head tilted to one side, eyes narrowed as he opens his mouth to speak, to shout, to cast some spell – perhaps the one that Hermione had used, to incapacitate him their last duel –

“Alright Harry?”

A familiar voice, disconcertingly cheerful, beats him to it.

“Cedric?” he says, taken aback.

Sure enough, Diggory is standing behind him, face flushed and adorned with beads of sweat; apparently in the midst of a jog.

“Ah,” Malfoy’s grin widens. “How fitting. The _real_ Hogwarts champion.” He turns to Cedric. “You’ll have our full support, come the first task, Diggory.” He gestures pointedly to their badges.

“You heading back to the castle, Harry?” Cedric says, ignoring Malfoy altogether – a bold move that has Harry raising his eyebrows.

“Uh, yeah, I am.”

A smile spreads across Cedric’s face.

“Brilliant,” he says. “So am I. Come on.”

Harry looks at him, puzzled. The thing is, he doesn’t _know_ Cedric. But if all his friends, never-mind all of the school, sees Harry as some asshat who’s set on stealing Cedric’s glory, why does Cedric insist on treating him like a person?

“Well,” it’s Malfoy, not to be out-done, “Isn’t _this_ cute. Understandable that you should feel sorry for him, Diggory. But don’t let Potter fool you. He’s a cheat, not a Champion.”

“Enjoy the Tournament, Malfoy,” Cedric says, seemingly unaffected, even as Harry fights every instinct in his body that is itching to give Malfoy a piece of his mind- maybe even his magic. His fingers tighten around the core of his wand.

“Are you coming, Harry?” It’s Cedric, voice cutting through the blood rushing to Harry’s ears.

“Yeah,” Harry forces the word out, knowing too well that if Cedric leaves him here, alone with Malfoy, he really will do something to get himself in trouble, and he won’t be at all sorry for it.  

The pair start walking, Harry briskly, every two steps of his amounting to one of Cedric’s.

It is only when they are far up the grassy hill, past the lake and Hagrid’s hut, and away from Malfoy and his friends, that Cedric speaks again.  

“I’m sorry everyone’s been giving you a hard time, Potter,” he says, opting to look into the hill, to the castle, instead of at Harry. “The truth is, I don’t know why your name was in the Goblet of Fire. Maybe you did nominate yourself, somehow.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t mean you should be persecuted for it.”

 _For the last fucking time,_ Harry wants to say, _I didn’t put my name in that Cup._

“Thank you,” is the tame substitute he goes with instead.

Cedric just nods.

“So,” he grins – how he’s _grinning_ Harry has no bloody idea - “nervous for the first task? I’ve still got no clue what it’s going to be. It’ll just be a relief to finally know, I suppose.”

Harry hesitates, glancing at the other boy.

But he _must_ know. He must be lying to Harry. Hermione said that the others knew.

Although –

 _No._ She said that Krum knew, that Fleur did. Who would’ve told Cedric?

The moment stretches out until the silence becomes uncomfortable, and Harry’s mind is spinning.

He _shouldn’t_ tell Cedric, some part of him – a part that sounds rather like Professor Riddle – says. Krum and Fleur are already at an advantage over him, and besides, Cedric is older than him, knows more magic than him. It would be _smart_ to keep it to himself. Or at least, it would be stupid to let Cedric know.

And yet.

The boy in yellow has stuck up for him, twice. First against his own friend, and then today, against Harry’s enemy.

And so Harry has made up his mind.

“Cedric,” he broaches carefully, “I think I know what the first task is going to be.”

Cedric stops in his tracks, whirling on Harry. His eyes are wide, and Harry wonders if he had worn that same expression, when Hermione had come to him by the Lake.

“What do you mean?” he says, suspicion colouring his tone. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he says, shrugging. “Hermione – my friend, you know – thinks she figured it out. She knows Hagrid is working on the first task, and his hair was burned, like from a dragon, y’know. So, we think it’s dragons. She said that Krum and Fleur already know.”

For a long time, Cedric just looks at Harry, eyes scanning his every feature, scanning, he knows, for a tell. Some sign that Harry’s messing with him.

“How long have you known?” he says at last.

“About an hour,” Harry says. “To be honest, I thought I was the last to find out.”

Cedric is frowning.

“If Krum and Fleur already knew,” he says, a sense of righteousness clear in his tone, “that means they’re not playing by the rules.”

“Yeah,” Harry says grimly. “Seems like it.”

“Why tell me, then?” Cedric demands. “You’d have a better chance if at least one of the rest of us didn’t know.”

“Because,” Harry says, exasperated, “whether you, or anyone, will believe me or not, I really don’t give a damn about winning. I don’t _want_ to be in this Tournament, Cedric. And I’m sure as hell not keen to fight a dragon. If everyone else already knows about it, someone should tell you, too. Fair’s fair.”

To Harry’s dismay, Cedric’s eyes give away how he feels, still: suspicion makes them narrow, bright.  

Cedric sighs.

“I don’t know, Potter,” he says, almost apologetic.

Harry shakes his head, suddenly exhausted. Of course he doesn’t, he thinks. He doesn’t know Harry. Not more than anyone else, besides Ron and Hermione, really. He knows that Harry is the Boy Who Lived, and now, he knows that Harry is the fourth Champion in a competition that was only ever supposed to have three. It shouldn’t feel quite as _bad_ as it does, to see so clearly that the other boy does not trust him. It isn’t personal, after all.

“Look,” Harry says- snaps, really, “do whatever you want. Ignore what I said, I couldn’t care less. I’m just done with everyone acting like if I haven’t just swallowed a vat of v _eritaserum_ I’m lying through my teeth.”

“Harry-” Cedric says, taking a step closer, face suddenly, terribly, earnest.

“I’ve got to go,” Harry goes on, cutting Cedric off, “Library, you know. I’ll see you later.”

He pushes past Cedric up the hill.

 Harry is half-running by the time he reaches the castle doors, barely bothering to dodge the shards of rock littering the green of the hillside.

* * *

 

The morning of the first task, Hermione’s hands are shaking.

They don’t seem to _remember_ how to be still, no matter how hard she tries to straighten her fingers, to press them down into her thigh.

Today, Harry fights a dragon. And he will do it on his own. And she will watch – just watch, for she is not allowed to do anything else. Not allowed to help, however desperately she might want to- and she so wants to.

She feels ill, and wonders, idly, if Harry could get out of this whole thing by feigning a stomach bug.

The task is to take place in the Quidditch pitch – they know that much. The rest is hushed up, stored behind tight-lipped ministry officials and Professor Dumbledore.

Harry’s already there, of course, in the Champion’s tent. All the Champions were called down an hour early. She supposes the details of the task are finally to be disclosed.

“Cheer up,” Ron, beside her as they make their way down the grassy hills to the Quidditch pitch, still damp with morning dew, says. “He’s the Chosen One. Whatever the task is, bet he’ll have everyone falling over themselves over the way he handles it in no time.”

“Will you stop it, Ron?” Hermione says agitatedly, “You have no idea what’s about to happen.”

“Nor do you,” Ron says pointedly, though of course, it isn’t true. She can’t tell Ron that, though; telling Harry was enough of a risk to make her stomach queasy, never-mind his estranged best friend.

“I’ve got a bad feeling,” she mumbles, pulling her Gryffindor scarf closer to her skin as cold air slices at it.

She can see the Champion’s tent now, a fat, yellow and white striped structure erected at the base of the Quidditch pitch.

Harry’s in there – alone, save for Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, and Cedric Diggory.

Hermione’s heart hurts.

“Save me a seat,” she says, all at once determined to see Harry, one last time, before it begins. Ron grumbles in protest behind her as she makes a bee-line for the tent, marching until she reaches its edges.

She hesitates, scanning for a gap in the plastic, a way she might see inside.

She approaches a crack in the tent, cautiously, so as not to cause any movement.

“Harry?” she whispers, a shot in the dark. “Harry, are you there?”

She presses her ear to the cold exterior, straining to hear his voice.

“Hermione?”

It’s quiet, but it’s him.

Relief, and nerves, chase themselves in her chest, an unpleasant sort of cocktail of sentiment.

“How are you?”

“Alright.”

 His voice is clearer, this time; he’s moved closer, pressed his face to the plastic.

He’s lying.

Hermione swallows.

“Just remember the plan. It’ll be fine.”

Because there is a plan. If nothing else, there is _something_.

It was the _gryphon_ that gave her the idea. The _gryphon_ , and the quills in the duel. Harry isn’t allowed to bring anything with him into these tasks, anything that might be helpful, it is true. But he is allowed a wand.

“Yeah,” comes Harry’s response, low, and categorically unconvinced. “Battle a dragon, no problem.”

His voice tugs at Hermione’s heart, and she does something that the benefit of hindsight will have her sorely regretting.

She tears through the gap in the tent, pulling Harry against her into a firm embrace.

There is a bright light, a sound- a shutter- and a burst of smoke.

A camera.

It is pointed in their direction, sizzling fresh from the photograph it has just taken, but that is not what disconcerts Hermione the most. That honour goes to the woman wielding it. She is alarmingly thin, all dressed in green satin, and her glasses are perched too far at the end of her nose to be really useful. She also has a rather extravagant hat on, despite the overcast skies outside, and the fact that she is currently inside a tent, phoenix feathers sticking proudly out the back. The parchment and quill hovering obediently at her shoulder are the icing on the bizarre cake.

“Oh, how wonderful!” the woman cries out with a voice like honey, “Young _love_. How positively _stirring_. What would your name be now, darling? My, you do look pale, you must be awfully distressed, mustn’t you? Afraid for his life, are you? You should be, you know. Oh, the young men who’ve _died_ in this Tournament…”

Hermione glances at Harry, bewildered.

He mouths ‘Skeeter’ back, and something that looks rather a lot like ‘old bat’. Before either of them can say a word, somebody else has marched up to the journalist.

“Skeeter,” it is a distinctly unimpressed Viktor Krum. “ _Journalists_ are not allowed in this tent. It eez only for Champions.” His eyes dart to Hermione, lingering, only for a moment. “And friends.”

Skeeter is on him now, eyes startlingly bright, and her quill is scribbling something frantically, though she hasn’t said a word yet.

“Of _course_ ,” she says breezily. “I believe I’ve got _exactly_ what I wanted, in any case.”

She flashes Krum a dazzling smile, the kind that Hermione had seen growing up on television, and her quill brushes the length of the Durmstrang Champion’s jawline before it follows her from the tent.

* * *

 

Hermione is scrambling up the length of the metal bleachers, squinting for Ron and Ginny through the fog of the morning, having been unceremoniously kicked out of the Champion’s tent when Dumbledore and the rest of them arrived to tell the Champions the news. She wonders if they all managed to act sufficiently surprised by it. Hermione grimaces. As unpleasant, as bewildering, as Rita Skeeter had been, she can’t say she wasn’t a welcome distraction from the dragon in the room. Now, Hermione’s mind is back on the reptilian beast, and she wonders what it will look like, how old it will be, how big, what _kind_ of dragon.

Hermione is as unable to coordinate her thoughts as she is her steps, and her ankle catches on the next step up, stinging, and she draws in her breath sharply as she loses balance, starts to stumble, starts to appreciate the fact that she’s about to topple over and embarrass herself in front of three different schools, maybe even start a domino effect and take others down with her-

 Something clasps around her elbow, then. Fingers, warm and firm, holding her steady and pulling her to one side of the stairs.

“Thank you,” Hermione gasps instantly, craning her neck to see who caught her.

Her cheeks colour at once.

“Granger,” Professor Riddle says, one eyebrow lifted, “And I here I had thought that it was _Potter’s_ safety we’d have to fear for today.”

He still has her elbow in a loose grip, hands, she is surprised to note, ungloved, even in the cold. Somehow, they feel warmer than her own.

He isn’t even wearing a coat- just a white, button up tunic, and a black scarf. Next to him, Hermione feels like a red and gold marshmallow, positively layered in wool.

“I was distracted,” Hermione mutters. “I didn’t know you were watching the Tournament, Professor.”

“What better way to measure my student’s ability to defend himself?” he says reasonably. “Besides, if I wasn’t here, I fear you’d currently be flat on the ground by virtue of the _dangers_ of your own two left feet.”

“I am _not_ clumsy,” Hermione says, indignant at the implication.

Professor Riddle grins.

“Know your shortcomings, Miss Granger,” he muses. He surveys her, then, just for a moment, eyes darting over her face. He frowns, and when he speaks again, his voice is suddenly gentle. “Don’t fret. Nobody is dying in this task, is that understood?”

Hermione meets his eyes, not bothering to hide the urgent anxiety in her own.

Professor Riddle does not look worried.

 Hermione does not know _why_ this comforts her, per se. Professor Riddle performs dark magic in classes, finds stories of Dark Wizards, their crimes, interesting, of course he isn’t rattled by a school Tournament – but when she takes her next breath, it is a little easier. It is calm.

“Yes,” she says, “I understand, Professor.”

“Good,” Riddle says. He clears his throat. “Well, then, Granger. I believe your friends await you.”

He nods to their immediate left, and Hermione is relieved to see Ginny’s red head of hair, bright in the dreary bleachers.

A sudden, rather unpleasant feeling of cold alerts Hermione to the fact that he has let go of her arm, fierce wind grabbing at it instead.

“Right,” she says unevenly. “Yes. I’ll go. Thank you again, Professor.”

Professor Riddle looks at her, concentrating rather hard, though she cannot imagine why. In the end, he only nods.

This time, when Hermione navigates her way to the Weasleys, she watches her every step.

* * *

 

“Now do you see what I mean?” Hermione is shouting over a positively roaring crowd, as a pale Ron Weasley averts his eyes from the sight of a rather excitable Welsh Green dragon tearing at Fleur Delacour’s torso, even as the girl _screams_ , crawling on hard stone with her hand outstretched towards the golden egg- the egg, they had learned, that the dragon must protect, and the Champion must collect.

“What the hell is this?” Ron shouts, plainly horrified. “Are they mad? This isn’t a competition, this is a _nightmare_.”

“I can’t _believe_ you bet against Harry,” she yells back, furious.

“I mean, I don’t know that I’d bet differently now,” Ron says, ill-looking.

The crowd gasps as the dragon takes another swipe at Fleur, a last-minute _protego_ the only thing between her chest, and the dragon’s heavy tail, its every move shaking the very foundations of the bleachers.

“Harry can’t fight a _dragon_ ,” Ron bursts, finally, spectacularly, coming to his senses. Hermione is too busy being terrified to hug him for it.

“He’ll have to,” Hermione says desperately. “Oh, god.”

He’s next.

And if Hermione had been nervous for him before, it is nothing to what she feels now.

Cedric had gone first. His teeth were clenched together and his eyes were sharp when he faced his dragon, the first dragon Hermione had ever seen, all yellow-green scales, tongue darting out of its alarmingly colossal mouth as though it meant to _taste_ him. It was chained up, and that was the only mercy that the task had afforded the Champions. It was _angry_ , calling, roaring in some language that Hermione could not understand, and it was _on_ Cedric the moment he entered the pitch. The boy was clever about it, Hermione thought. He had tried to befriend the dragon; used techniques Hagrid had taught them in Care of Magical Creatures. He approached the beast with his hands up and his eyes diverted. It was a lucky dive for the egg that secured his win, though the _slam_ of the betrayed dragon smacking him down with its tail immediately after made the victory rather bittersweet.

Krum had gone next, his energy matching the Chinese Fireball’s. It was furious red, and if it would only hold still, Hermione might have admired its regal sort of beauty. Its strategy consisted purely of fire- white hot and constant, engulfing the pitch in smoke and heat. It was a test of endurance, then, between Krum, enduring the gruelling heat, and the Fireball, taking Krum’s continuous stream of curses, inflicting shallow cuts across the dragon’s face, _eyes_ , until its vision was so impaired it could no longer direct its fire at Krum. Its sockets were leaking red when Krum finally made a run for it, holding the golden egg in the air like a gift to his school, to Karkaroff, and Hermione had felt _nauseous_.

“That was barbaric,” she had said, wincing at the sight of the tortured dragon.

“But brilliant,” was Ron’s reply.

She thinks about the plans she made with Harry. She wonders if they were mad.

“She’s got it!”

Ginny’s cry breaks Hermione from her reverie.

“Fleur’s got the Egg!”

Hermione looks down. Sure enough, Fleur is lying across the dragon’s nest, Golden Egg glinting as she holds it tight to her chest. She is crying, Hermione notes, and she can’t blame her.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Ron mumbles, both hands clapped over his mouth.

“Oh, no,” Hermione whispers. “ _Harry_.”

Dumbledore is announcing it, that the trial of the last Champion is about to begin, even as healers rush to Fleur’s aid, as men and women from the Ministry cast some spell over the dragon, putting it to sleep and making way for Harry’s dragon-

Hermione _gasps_.

Because Harry’s dragon does not look like a dragon. Not _just_ a dragon, anyway. It must be something else. Because where the others had smooth scales, beautiful ones, _this_ – the Hungarian Horntail – was all spikes, jarring and uninviting and awfully dangerous, patterned from its head to tail. There is something in its eyes, too, that strikes her, scares her. Some brand of madness in the green that the others did not have.

“Bloody hell,” Ron says, eyes very wide. “What is that thing?”

Hermione only shakes her head, mouth open.

“Ron,” it’s Ginny, caution in her voice. “Ron, is Harry supposed to fight that?”

“Now!” It’s Dumbledore, voice booming across the bleachers from the staff box above them, all too soon, “Our final Champion, from Hogwarts, Mr Harry Potter, will face his dragon. I give you the Hungarian Horntail!”

As though on cue, the Horntail stretches its neck out, a howl erupting from deep in its belly that chills Hermione to the bone.

She can’t think much, anymore; only the word ‘no’, over and over.

The Horntail sees Harry enter the pitch before she does.

* * *

 

With a shriek and a slam, the Horntail pounces, and it is only then that Hermione sees the figure in red scrambling to land on his feet, to hide –

 _Harry_.

She can’t see him anymore, which she supposes is a good thing. He’s hidden, she reasons, and that’s the best he can hope for right at this instant. If he acts now, if he casts it _now_ , he should be fine.

She glances across at the castle, expectant. Any moment now, she’ll see it: the broom, hurtling towards him, a life-line.

Apparently unable to find Harry either, the frustrated Horntail groans, loud, fearsome, tugging restlessly at the chain around its neck. In an instant, she sees fire.

It’s hitting one boulder in particular, she notes, a rather large one- and when she leans over far enough, she sees Harry, pressed firmly against the back of it and panting, both hands wandless.

“ _Your wand, Harry!”_ she screams, loud as she can, not caring much to ask whether its allowed, first. They can only disqualify him – and that can only be an overwhelmingly _good_ thing.

Harry starts, and when his hand reaches frantically into his pocket, she knows that he heard her.

“Oh, thank god,” she murmurs, under her breath so nobody can hear. “Please, Harry, just say it.”

“ _Accio Firebolt!”_ Harry yells, and before Hermione has the time to punch her fist in the air, the Horntail is upon him, flames roaring past impossibly strong teeth, and Harry abandons his cover behind the rock, leaping out, running, and the Horntail spots him, draws in air to fuel new fire –

Not a moment too soon, Hermione hears the familiar hum of Harry’s broom, cutting through air.

It catches Harry with an ungraceful stagger as he makes a jump for it, and the crowd cheers, everyone, for one glorious moment, on Harry’s side.

And then there is a sound.

Something Hermione hasn’t heard before. A sound that they are not supposed to hear, and her stomach _drops_.

It is the sound of a snapping chain.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron hisses, petrified.

Hermione doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

Because before Ron’s finished asking, the Horntail is in the air, leathery wings stretched across the length of the bleachers, throwing its head back and calling into the skies, a victory cry.

It has broken _free_.

Frantic, Hermione cranes her neck to look up at the staff section, where Dumbledore is standing, eyes wide as he beholds the dragon before him.

‘Security’, she sees him say to somebody, very quickly, but the dragon only has eyes for Harry. Snarling, spitting, it turns on him.

Hermione doesn’t feel numb anymore. Her every nerve is alive, screaming, begging for her to do something –

She thinks about what Professor Riddle said, about the _gryphon_. Flatter, distract, run, fight. And there was only one way to win a fight with a creature as formidable as a _gryphon_. Surely, then, that’s the only way to win a fight with a dragon, too. Only one kind of magic powerful enough to match it.

Could she do it?

God, that she’s even thinking about it-

But if Dumbledore won’t do anything, can’t do anything, what choice does she have? What choice, other than to _lose_ her friend, to the most senseless competition any idiot has ever invented?

Her fingertips find the body of her wand.

Harry, meanwhile, appears to have opted for the ‘flee’ option, testing the Firebolt’s capacity as he cuts through the pitch, past the far goals, towards the bridge, the Horntail hot on his tails in quite the literal sense, fire chasing him as he flies.  

The gap between them is closing, but the distance between champion, dragon, and audience is rapidly increasing, until even the Horntail is a mere speck in Hermione’s vision.

* * *

 

There is deathly quiet before there is chaos.

“Professor Dumbledore,” she says, to nobody in particular. Mind whirling, she shoves herself away from the rails and marching up the stairs towards the staff box, even as Ron tries to tug her back, asks her where she’s going.

She is out of breath when she reaches it, takes in the sight of the Professors all on their feet, in urgent conversation. 

“- remain calm, we can send a team out after them, if Hagrid could advise-” the Headmaster is saying.

“Where are they?” Madam Maxime, anxious.

“-were assured the Tournaments would be _safe_ , and now this, Dumbledore? You are lucky it is not my boy being chased by a loose dragon right now. I would have your career for this, Albus,” it’s Karkaroff, furious.

“ _Granger_.”

Professor Riddle is in front of her, voice cutting across the noise and the madness surrounding Hermione. He looks distinctly unimpressed.

“Granger, this is the highest section of the bleachers,” he says matter-of-factly, “and there is a dragon on the loose. Do you know what that means?”

“I-”

“It means,” he goes on, not bothered with her response, “that this is the most dangerous place you could _possibly_ be at this moment. Return to your seat. _Right_ now. That’s an order.”

“An order?” Hermione says, incredulous. “Professor, Harry-”

“Can’t be helped now,” Riddle says shortly. “Least of all by you. Besides, this is a _staff only_ area, for God’s sake, Granger.” He tears his fingers through his hair, agitated.

“He _can_ be helped. But it has to be fast.” She gestures down at the bewildered cluster of wizards wearing robes marked ‘security’ speaking to Dumbledore, each holding a rather shoddy-looking broom and a petrified expression.

“They’re not going to be fast enough. Somebody has to apparate,” she says impatiently, words tripping over themselves in their haste to be said. “To wherever Harry is. It’s possible, I know it is, to track somebody like that– I’ve read about it – of course, you’d know already, Professor, but they would need something of Harry’s. I have his scarf. He gave it to me this morning.”

Riddle pauses, surveying her.

“Nobody can apparate within the grounds of Hogwarts.”

“With all due respect, Professor, it would be beyond foolish if there were _no_ exceptions to that rule- no way of overcoming it,” Hermione says heatedly. “And Professor Dumbledore is not foolish, so I _know_ that there is. So, if you don’t mind-”

She moves to pass Professor Riddle, but he is faster, stepping into her path with a polite smile; a warning one.

Hermione _scowls_ at him.

“Professor-”

This time, it is not Riddle who cuts her off, nor Dumbledore.

This time, it is much worse than that.

This time, it is harsh, painful, to hear.

A s _cream_ , primal and bellowing; distant, yet unthinkably loud.

The Horntail.

Professor Riddle does not wince, though Hermione thinks he looks rather alarmingly still.

She swallows, not daring to cast her eyes towards the bridge, the source of the noise. She is too afraid of what sight might greet her.

She hasn’t heard a dragon scream before. She does not know what it means.

Fear; defeat? Or _victory_?

“If something has happened to Harry,” she says, deliberately calm, “Professor, if he isn’t okay-”

Professor Riddle isn’t looking at her. He’s gazing in the direction that Harry and the Horntail raced off in, eyes narrowed.

“Granger,” he says suddenly. “Stop being dramatic and _look_ , will you.” He jerks his head towards the bridge.

She hesitates.

In his eyes, she tries to discern what she will see when she does. They are glinting, but that’s no help. His eyes always look like that; _alive_ like that, awake.

Sighing, and mumbling something under his breath that she can’t quite catch, Riddle’s hands fall to Hermione’s shoulders. Before she has time to be surprised at the contact, to register just how warm his hands _still_ feel, he has shifted her unceremoniously in the direction of the bridge.

Hermione’s lips part involuntarily, and it only takes a moment for them to spread into a smile so wide it hurts her cheeks, dizzy with relief.

She can’t see the dragon, can’t see it anywhere, not even its shadow past the bridge.

But she can see something else.

A boy on his broom, hurtling towards the Quidditch Pitch.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again, 
> 
> This chapter is unexpectedly brought to you by severe procrastination and insomnia!  
> Things are getting pretty busy on my end, so while this chapter is super rough, I wanted to post it now as I've got no idea when I'd be able to polish it up. I hope it isn't too awfully written!
> 
> As always, I love and appreciate your comments and kudos so much, thank you for everyone who has taken the time to do so!

* * *

 

There is a moment, between Ron’s first piece of toast and the mail owls arriving, when everything is perfect.

Granted, there is a dark scratch stretching the length of Harry’s temple to his chin, and his good arm is bound up in plaster, rendering him particularly clumsy with his tea this morning. Granted, Malfoy’s morning entrance to the Great Hall came with a loud indictment of Harry for killing a dragon – a magical creatures activist overnight, it would seem. Granted, Harry is carrying around the golden egg containing a clue about the next task that, as it happens, shrieks aloud when it is opened, and granted, Dumbledore is absent once more – taking breakfast in his Chambers today, McGonagall had said, and Hermione gets an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach when she glances over his empty chair.

Still, it is perfect.

Because she is sitting opposite Ron, who’s taken up the seat next to Harry, and he’s working overtime trying to apologise for being a bit of a tosser without actually apologising.

The ridiculous feud that has seen Hermione juggling the two boys these past few weeks has come to an end – and all it had taken was Harry’s near-death experience with a manic Hungarian Horntail.

 _Thank Merlin_.

 “So brilliant – Malfoy’s being a right wanker now, but I _saw_ him cheering when you got on that broom- everyone was. Bet Krum wishes he’d thought of that,” he says enthusiastically.

Hermione smiles down at the table.

“Actually, it was Hermione’s idea,” Harry admits.

Last night, they had filled Ron in on everything. On Hagrid and the singed hair. On Riddle, and how Hermione is convinced that, for one reason or another, he _wanted_ Harry to know. On Harry, telling Cedric – much to Ron’s disappointment and Hermione’s reluctant admiration.

“You’ve got to make the elements around you work to your favour,” Hermione explains. “It was our duel in Professor Riddle’s class that gave me the idea. I summoned the quills, and that kept me in the game. Harry’s good on a broom, everyone knows that.” She shrugs.

“Brilliant,” Ron says again – he’s scarcely said another word since he’d all but run up to Harry after the Tournament, hands tucked in his pockets and cheeks red. “I guess that’s what you were talking about then? With Professor Riddle yesterday?” He nods at Hermione. “On the stairs. Looked intense. I thought you might be in trouble or something.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, and with a flush, she remembers – her ankle giving way, Riddle holding her steady. “No, I wasn’t in trouble.”

“When has Hermione _ever_ been in trouble?” Harry rolls his eyes.

“Whenever she hangs out with us,” Ron replies, and Hermione grins.

“So, the shady new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor is alright, huh?” he goes on, chewing his bacon thoughtfully.  “Funny. I swear I had a bad feeling about him.”

“Honestly, so did I,” Harry shrugs. “Guess it was a false alarm this time.”

“At least there’s still Snape,” Ron says cheerfully. “We’ve always got Snape to complain about, the slimy bastard.”

“ _Ron_ ,” Hermione protests, but Harry is laughing, and it is all so normal, so _them_ , that she can’t keep the warmth from touching her face.

That’s when the first _Daily Prophet_ arrives, landing with a dull thud squarely on the pile of sausages in front of Neville.

“Right, then, have a look, Neville!” Ron calls. “Anything about Harry? ‘Hero Slays Dragon?’”

Neville peels the paper from the plate, taking care not to touch the rather oily back.

“Um,” he says, voice strangely high. “Well. It’s _something_ about Harry.”

“What does it say then?” Ron says eagerly.

More _Prophets_ arrive now, the gentle sound of paper hitting wood – and, when the owls miss, food- almost soothing to Hermione.

 “Harry,” Neville says, looking rather uncomfortable indeed, “Hermione. I think you should take a look.”

He passes the _Prophet_ their way.

Hermione frowns.

“Me?” she says. “Why _me_?”

Harry takes the paper, glancing down intently. When he looks up and meets Hermione’s eyes, his cheeks are red.

“Ah,” he says, “this isn’t… ideal.”

“What isn’t ideal?” she says, even as Ron leans in to look too. He looks between Harry and Hermione, eyebrows raised.

“Blimey,” he says. “Have I missed _that_ much?” He sounds amused, and a little disgusted.

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry says immediately.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Hermione says crossly, reaching across the width of the table and snatching the Prophet from Harry’s unwilling hands.

“Hermione,” he says warningly, but she ignores him, drawing it in and narrowing her eyes.

She gasps.

It’s her.

There, on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ , _her_.

Hermione has thought about headlining the _Prophet_ before. If she is being entirely candid, she first imagined it on her very first morning at Hogwarts, in the bustle of the air-traffic, the owls delivering news from across the wizarding world. She imagined that one day, her work would be at the front of that page.

 _Hermione Granger, Youngest Minister for Magic Great Britain has Ever Seen_ , it would say, or

_Hermione Granger’s ‘SPEW’ prompts comprehensive legal change to protect the rights of House Elves._

She had never imagined this headline, accompanied by the motion image of herself, hair a mess and cheeks red from the cold, throwing herself into Harry’s arms inside a yellow striped tent:

_Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache._

Hermione blinks, unable to quite believe what she’s reading.

“What on _earth_?” she says. “Listen to this! ‘ _Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to be developing a taste for famous wizards_.’”

Ron scoffs as she continues.

“‘ _Her latest prey, sources report, is none other than the Bulgarian Bonbon, Viktor Krum. No word yet on how Harry Potter is taking this latest emotional blow_.’”

She slams down the paper, furious.

“Oh, honestly,” she huffs, “ _This_ is what passes for news these days? And here I thought the _Daily Prophet_ had journalistic integrity.”  

“There’s worse stuff about me,” Harry says. “Further down. ‘ _Mr Potter chokes up, his eyes glistening with the ghosts of his past, as he remembers his dead parents, Hogwarts alumni, Lily and James. ‘I entered the Tournament for my dad. I know he’d be so proud of me,’ Potter tells the Daily Prophet. It isn’t all misery for Mr Potter, though. Close friend, Colin Creevy, reports that Potter has found comfort, and love, in Hermione Granger, pictured above_.’” He grimaces. “ _Close friend_.”

“What rubbish,” Hermione says hotly, taking a rather aggressive bite of toast.

“You sure it’s rubbish?” Ron is grinning from ear to ear. “I dunno, mate. Come to think of it, your eyes are _glistening_ -”

Harry shoves Ron’s side with his elbow, sending the other boy into a fit of laughter.

Hermione sighs, glancing about the length of the Gryffindor table. She is disappointed, but is not surprised, to find everybody’s eyes trained on her. Ginny gives her a sympathetic look.

“Wonderful,” she mutters. “Now everybody’s read it.”  

“What’s that bit about Krum, though?” Ron inquires, ears always perked up where the famous Seeker is concerned.

“How should I know?” she says tiredly. “She’s making it all up.”

“Shame, that,” Ron says, and then, at an incredulous look from Harry and Hermione, “What? He’s only the greatest Seeker in the _world_. If you got married, I could be his _Best Man_ or something.” There’s a dreamy look about him as he speaks that makes Hermione want to vomit.

“Don’t worry, Hermione,” Neville says, and with a start, she glances at the boy who had handed Harry the paper. A kind smile makes him a welcome sight. “Everyone will have forgotten about any of this by lunch.”

Hermione smiles, thanks him. What is more, she believes him.

That, as it happens, turns out to be her first mistake of the day.

* * *

 

Hermione’s second mistake is opening the letter that’s waiting at her desk, labelled beautifully with her name in green ink, at the start of Charms class.

She doesn’t receive a lot of mail, really – a card from mum and dad on her birthday and Christmas, and that’s about the lot. But still, she opens it, and the moment she does, she curses herself for not wearing gloves.

There is a bit of parchment folded up inside the envelope, but that isn’t the first of its contents that catches Hermione’s attention.

The moment her fingertips split through the seal, they are coated with an unpleasantly sticky powder- and it _itches_.

“Hermione?” Parvati says, concerned. “What’s happening to your hand?”

“I-” Hermione hesitates. “Oh!”

Because the powder doesn’t only itch. Hermione’s hands are _growing_ , her fingers expanding like balloons, stretching her skin, _stinging_.

“Miss Granger!” Professor Flitwick has arrived, and is blinking fast at the sight of Hermione’s hands. “Whatever is the matter?”

“I- I think I should go to the Hospital Wing, Professor,” she says, unable to divert her eyes from the alarmingly large hands that now sit where her own, small ones had been not a moment ago.

“I think you’re right. Parvati, if you’ll escort Miss Granger to the Hospital Wing.”

Parvati nods, and if Hermione is grateful for anything, it is only that she and Parvati arrived early to class – that it is only a handful of people who laugh at her on her way out.

* * *

 

Harry has a sheepish look about him when he shows up by Hermione’s bed at the Hospital Wing after lunch.

“Sorry,” he is panting. “Came as soon as I heard.”

“ _We_ came as soon as we heard,” Ron corrects him, appearing at Harry's side, though his face looks rather pink for another reason entirely. He looks like it’s Christmas and his birthday all wrapped up in one. “Flitwick told us about the note in the envelope. _‘For breaking Harry’s heart- and stay away from Viktor!’._ ” Ron can’t help himself. He bursts out laughing.

“Helpful, Ron,” Harry says disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” Ron gasps between laughs, “it’s just that it’s really fucking _funny_.”

Hermione presses her lips together, hands, though notably deflated now, still too sore for her to see the humour in it all.

Harry shakes his head, turning to Hermione.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I feel like this is my fault.”

“Don’t be silly,” Hermione says briskly. “It isn’t your fault at all. It’s that horrid Skeeter woman.”

“I can’t believe you got _attacked_ for it,” Harry says. “I mean, even if it was true, what she wrote, who would think to _attack_ you for that? It’s mad. Do you have any idea who it was?”

“Not a clue,” Hermione sighs. “A fan of yours, evidently.”

“Skeeter shouldn’t just get away with this,” he says darkly. “She’s- she’s encouraging hate-mail, that’s what she’s doing.”  

“Oh, relax,” Ron grins. “She was just giving us all a bit of much needed entertainment.”

“Yes,” Hermione says icily. “I’m _so_ entertained.”

“Oh, speaking of not being entertained,” Ron says breezily, “Professor Riddle isn’t happy you missed Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Hermione groans. So much for her tentative, good rapport with the new Professor.

“Does he know why I wasn’t there?”

“Well, sort of,” Harry says apologetically. “Malfoy might’ve said something to him about it and – well, you know Malfoy.”

“Splendid,” Hermione says delicately. “So Professor Riddle thinks I’m a galleon-digging harlot now?”

“Galleon-digging harlot!” Ron’s day, it seems, keeps getting better. “Make it ‘harlot _s_ ’ and you’ve got a _great_ name for a band, ‘Mione.”

“No,” Harry says hastily. “’course not! I mean, not that he’d care, really. Honestly, he just seemed annoyed it meant you missed class. You know Professor Riddle.”

Hermione sighs. She doesn’t, of course; even now, she finds him impossible to read, but that’s beside the point.

“I _hate_ that I missed class,” she says. “But Madam Pomphrey insisted and- well, to be honest with you, I wasn’t about to walk into a class with Malfoy with hands the size of two coconuts.”

“Merlin, I wish I’d seen them at their peak,” Ron says longingly. “Look at them! All deflated like limp di-”

“ _Mr_ Weasley!”

It is Madam Pomphrey, come to Hermione’s rescue.

“With that bedside manner I’ve no choice but to ask that you leave my patient.”

“C’mon, Madam Pomphrey,” Ron says, but he’s blushing.

“Now, Mr Weasley,” she says, fixing him with a stern look. “You too, Mr Potter. No need to look so concerned. Miss Granger is in good hands. She’ll be with you by dinner, hands in order.”

* * *

 

When Hermione returns to classes, head down and hands small, but tender and pink, she is glad that the first lesson of the day is McGonagall’s. Under her stringent eye, Hermione felt safe from the jeers of Malfoy; safe from the daggers that girls have come to throw her way with their glares.

“Your attention, please,” McGonagall says crisply. “Today, we depart from Transfiguration. The Headmaster sees it necessary that you become acquainted with the traditional event that you are to partake in a week from now. To those unfamiliar, I refer to the _Yule Ball_.”

At that, the class stirs: Lavender and Parvati exchange excited looks, Neville perks up, leans in. Malfoy snorts, but he tilts his head, listening.

With a single look, McGonagall silences them.

“It is _tradition_ that every Triwizard Tournament is accompanied by a Ball. It is your chance to make the acquaintance of our friends from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. To _let your hair down_ , so to speak,” she says tightly, and Hermione’s eyes go to the painfully tight bun that the Professor has knotted her own hair into for every day that Hermione has known her. She wonders if McGonagall has ever let it down in her life. “There shall be music, food, and drink, all of which you are to _enjoy responsibly_. You represent your school on this evening, and it is my task to ensure that you do so well.” She shoots a helpless sort of look in Neville’s approximate direction, and a pointed glare in Malfoy’s.

“What are you teaching us, then, Professor?” Ron asks. “About the ball?”

McGonagall purses her lips.

“Well, Mr Weasley,” she says curtly, “The Yule Ball is, first and foremost, a dance. As such,” she points to the empty space beside her. “If you would, Mr Weasley.”

Ron pales.

“Oh, um, I’m alright here, Professor,” he says hastily. “Quidditch practice, actually, y’know, bad knees.”

“Nonsense.”

With a flounce of velvet green robes, and a firm grip, Professor McGonagall has taken Ron by the arm and marched him to the front of class.

“Now,” Professor McGonagall faces him, eyebrows arched. “Place your right hand on my waist.”

Ron gulps.

“ _Where_?” it is barely a whisper, but Hermione hears it. She stifles a giggle despite herself.

“My _waist_ , Mr Weasley,” McGonagall says coolly.

The look Ron wears as he beholds Professor McGonagall now is not unlike the one he’d worn at the sight of the Hungarian Horntail, furious and free from its chains.

He whimpers, but before he can come up with an excuse to sit down, McGonagall, ever in a business-like fashion, is guiding his hands towards her.

A soft rumble of laughter fills the room, and, as the music starts, and McGonagall starts to count the steps out loud, half-marching him across the room, Ron shoots a helpless look at Harry and Hermione.

‘Help me’, he mouths urgently.

 Harry gives him two thumbs up and a grin.

* * *

 

“I don’t see why we’ve got to ask someone to this Ball,” Harry says on their way from class, once they’ve all managed to catch their breath and come to terms with the fact that they’ve just witnessed Ron slow-dancing with McGonagall to fairy choir music across the breadth of their Transfiguration classroom.

“We haven’t _got_ to,” Hermione says. “McGonagall clearly said that it’s something we _can_ do. It isn’t mandatory.”

“Yeah,” Ron says thickly. “Only, if you show up alone, you’re going to look like a right twat, aren’t you?”

Hermione sniffs.

“I don’t see why. I’d much sooner go alone and spend the evening with friends.”

“You and me both,” Harry agrees.

“Come off it, Harry,” Ron says, “You just defeated a Hungarian Horntail. Hermione got her hands _blown up_ by some jealous bird. You could ask anyone you like.”

“One problem, Ron,” Harry says, “I don’t like anyone.”

Ron rolls his eyes.

“Hopeless. I bet even Fleur would say yes to you.”

“Fleur Delacour?” Hermione says, concerned. “ _Oh_ , Ron. You’re not seriously going to ask _her_ to the Ball, are you? You haven’t even met the poor girl.”

“I might do,” Ron says hotly. “I hear the French like red-heads.”

“I have _never_ in my life heard that,” Harry remarks. “But good luck, Ron.” He claps him on the back.

“Thanks,” Ron grins, “ _Harry_ , for being a _good_ friend.” He shoots a look at Hermione.

“Harry!”

A deep, rather pleasant voice calls, before Hermione can come up with a retort. She glances over her shoulder.

Cedric Diggory is half-jogging towards them down the corridor, hand raised and waving at Harry.

“Hi,” he says breathlessly when he reaches them.

“Oh,” Harry blinks. “Hey, Cedric.”

 “I, uh, just wanted to say, well done with your dragon,” Cedric says, fingers running through his sandy-blond hair absentmindedly. “That trick with the broom was impressive – I don’t know what I would’ve done if mine had broken free like that. Probably wouldn’t be here to speak of it.” He smiles, _tentatively_ , almost as though he’s _shy_.

“Thanks,” Harry says, surprise as clear in his tone as it is in his face. “You did well with yours, I’ve been told.”

“It’s true,” Hermione says. “Trying to calm it down, it was a wonderful approach.”

“I would’ve been toast if I’d had a less amicable dragon to work with,” he shrugs. “Anyway, I should be off- Potions- but,” he takes a step closer to Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder, and close as he is, he leans in, so that he’s speaking into his ear.  He murmurs something, then, so low Hermione can’t make out what’s being said. When he steps back, he squeezes Harry’s shoulder, firm, before he lets go.

He grins sheepishly.

“Anyway,” he clears his throat. “Good to see you- Ron, Hermione,” he nods at the two of them, even as they narrow their eyes, curious. “Harry.” He actually _winks_ , then, before he continues past them, disappearing as suddenly as he had appeared.

Ron whirls on Harry.

“What was _that_ about?”

 Harry looks about as befuddled as Hermione feels.

“Um. He was saying thank you. For me telling him about the dragons, you know. Said he owes me.”

“That’s decent of him,” Hermione says, pleased.

“Yeah,” Harry says. He’s gazing down the corridor after Cedric, though he’s long gone now. “Really decent.”

* * *

 

Hermione is as taken aback as Harry is when the pretty Hufflepuff girl approaches them at lunch, and, between fits of giggles, asks him if he has a date to the Yule Ball.

“Oh,” Harry says, eyes wide under his glasses. “Um. I don’t?” He says it like a question, as though he hasn’t quite realised yet that she’s asking because _she_ would like to go with him.

“Oh,” the girl says, “Oh, good.” She smiles. “I’m Elizabeth. You don’t know me, but I thought you were really brave with that dragon. I was wondering if you’d like to go to the Ball with me?”

For an uncomfortably long time, Harry just blinks rather stupidly at her.  

“Oh,” he eventually musters. “Oh, um. Oh! You want to go _together_?”

“Well, yes.”

“Oh, brilliant! I mean, not brilliant, um, fine. Thank you,” he swallows, and while Hermione can almost feel Ron suppressing his laughter, she feels quite sorry for him.

“With _me_?” Harry qualifies.

“Um, if you would like.” Evidently, Harry’s responses aren’t doing anything to soothe Elizabeth’s nerves.

“Oh!” Harry says, for the umpteenth time. “Um. Wow. Well, Elizabeth, thank you, I’m flattered, really. But,” he hesitates. “I don’t even know if I’ll go to the Ball. Sorry.”

Elizabeth’s face falls.

“Oh,” she hesitates. “Is it because of her?” She gestures to Hermione.

“ _Me_?” Hermione says in disbelief, just as Harry says, “ _Hermione_?”

“Oh, no, Elizabeth,” Harry says hurriedly. “That – in the news- it’s not true. Hermione and I are friends.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to go with me, you know,” Elizabeth sniffs. “I would understand. But be honest about why.”

Harry’s mouth falls open, gobsmacked, but Elizabeth is flouncing away before he can come up with a response.

“Blimey,” he says, exasperated. “What the hell was that?”

“Told you,” Ron smirks. “You fight a dragon, you’re going to have a target on your back. Girls love that stuff.”

“Do they, now?” Hermione says sardonically.

“She obviously did, didn’t she?” Ron says, gesturing after Elizabeth as she takes a seat dejectedly at the Hufflepuff table.

“If she sends another curse my way,” Hermione murmurs.

“She won’t,” Harry says at once, and then, “I hope.”

Hermione sighs.

“I really, intensely, dislike Rita Skeeter.”

* * *

 

Within the first minute of Defence Against the Dark Arts, it becomes apparent that, just as Ron had warned, Professor Riddle is not happy with Hermione.

He flat-out _ignores_ her when she puts her hand up to answer his first question of the lesson, calling on Lavender even though neither she, nor anybody else, had raised their hand, and again, the second time. In fact, Hermione is quite certain he hasn’t looked at her since he entered the room, eyebrows pulled together and lips pursed.

She isn’t the only one to notice his foul mood.

“ _What’s got his wand in a knot_?” Harry leans across Hermione’s desk to whisper- but Professor Riddle turns on them all the same.

“Potter, Granger,” he says coolly, “Your _complicated_ relationship might affect the morning news, but rest assured, it will _not_ interfere with _my_ lessons. Is that clear?”

Hermione looks at him, incredulous.

“ _Professor_ -”

“Miss Granger, another word out of your mouth and you’ll be serving detention this evening,” Riddle drawls over her. He still won’t _look_ at her. “Now, can anyone _else_ tell me…”

Hermione and Harry exchange a bewildered look.

Behind them, Draco Malfoy sniggers.

* * *

 

It is almost physically _painful_ to sit through the length of the lesson, knowing the answer to his every question, yet being unable to offer them. Today, Hermione is silent as she is outperformed by Lavender, by Neville, by Malfoy – and all the while, her Professor avoids her gaze. She is not sure if she feels more hurt than angry, more confused than humiliated, when, mercifully, the class is dismissed.

“C’mon,” Harry murmurs. “Reckon we should just leave this time.”  

Hermione hesitates, glancing at Riddle, shuffling their papers into a neat pile on his desk, back to her.

“You go ahead,” she murmurs, albeit reluctantly, “I should apologise for missing class yesterday.”

Harry arches his eyebrows.

“Alright,” he says, swinging his bag across his shoulder and grabbing up the golden egg he’s taken to carrying with him about the castle.

‘ _Your funeral_ ’, he mouths, looking pointedly at the moody Professor. Clapping a hand across Ron’s shoulder, the boys make for the door, leaving Hermione alone with Professor Riddle.

She swallows, nervous as she approaches his desk. She wonders which Professor Riddle she is going to get when he turns around and sees her, still here. The harsh one she had met, his very first lesson? The kind one, who escorted her to the Common Room after hours and coaxed the Fat Lady into letting her inside? The one who had told her in coded terms about the First Task?

She clears her throat.

“Professor,” she says timidly. “I, uh, wanted to speak with you quickly.”

He has his back to her still, and he doesn’t bother changing that when he replies.

“Speak then, Granger. _Quickly_.”

Hermione hesitates. She wants to tell him that it’s rude not to look at somebody when they’re speaking to you, not, she thinks, that he would care much.

“I missed class yesterday.”

“Yes,” he says flatly.

“I just wanted to apologise, Sir,” she says earnestly. “I- well, I was in the Hospital Wing, and Madam Pomphrey wouldn’t allow me to leave.”

Professor Riddle straightens, then.

“The Hospital Wing?”

Finally, he turns around. Looks at her.

She almost sighs with the feeling of pure relief she feels, now.

His eyes are dark and narrowed, but his lips are parted. He is surprised.

Hermione nods hurriedly.

“Yes, Professor. I’m sorry, I thought somebody had told you.”

Professor Riddle’s lip twitches.

“Somebody told me something,” he says, folding his arms. “Perhaps I should hear from you, then, why you missed class. What were you doing in the Hospital Wing, Granger?”

It almost sounds like an accusation, as though Hermione had plotted this Hospital Wing admission for the sole purpose of skipping Defence Against the Dark Arts.   

“Well,” Hermione swallows, awfully embarrassed at the prospect of having to explain the whole Rita Skeeter mess to her _teacher_ , “I, um. You’ve seen the _Daily Prophet_. That article about- well.” Why is it, she thinks, that he ignores her all lesson, yet now, when she’s bumbling her way through explaining _this_ , his eyes are positively _bearing_ into hers? “A lot of people became quite _passionate_ about it. I was cursed by somebody who had read the _Prophet_ who felt quite strongly about me – my hands, that is, my hands were cursed, and I had to wait for Madam Pomphrey to fix them. But I have all the homework, and notes from Harry, too. I am _truly_ sorry, Professor.”

Professor Riddle takes a moment to appraise her.

“Yes, well,” he clears his throat. “Perhaps in future, refraining from entering into _exclusive_ Champion’s tents to rendezvous with your famous _friends_ would prove prudent.”

Hermione stares at him.

 _Galleon-digging harlot._ Close enough, it seems.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“You’re excused,” he says coolly.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, exasperated. “I am _not_ \- the article was all rubbish. Not that it _matters_. But Harry is my friend, and I don’t _know_ Viktor Krum. Rita Skeeter made it all up for a good _story_.”

Professor Riddle raises his eyebrows.

“I’m sure it’s none of my concern either way, Granger.”

“No, it isn’t,” she says heatedly, unable to contain herself, “but I would’ve thought that you of all people should know better than to believe whatever the _Daily Prophet_ says. It is rather _limited_ , after all.”

Hermione stops, panting, and immediately regrets saying anything at all. She regrets that she didn’t just leave with Harry and Ron at the end of class. Most of all, she regrets that she ever went to the Champion’s tent to begin with.

Professor Riddle leans in, face entirely blank.

“ _Limited_ ,” he says, ever so slowly.

And Hermione waits for her detention. Waits for him to scold her, tell her just how out of line she is.

“Professor,” she says, hesitantly, wondering what on earth she can possibly say to talk her way out of this one.

He places a single finger in the air, silencing her.

It is only when the silence is too much for Hermione to bear any longer that he bursts out laughing.

* * *

 

Is it unfair, truly, the way he looks when he laughs. His eyes light up and his teeth are as bright, and the way his cheeks, his nose, scrunch up, makes him quite stunning to behold.

Hermione hates him for it: for threatening her with a detention, ignoring her, humiliating her, and now, for making her forget how cross she is with him.

“Alright, Granger,” he allows, once he’s done laughing – _at her_ , Hermione reminds herself-“You make a compelling point. And, as you’ve handed in yesterday’s homework, I’ll not penalise you for missing class.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she says, relieved.

“I stand by my advice, though,” he says, though there is an edge to his voice, a teasing one. “The Champion’s tent, the staff Section of the bleachers… it rather seems you’ve got a knack for finding yourself in places you shouldn’t be, Miss Granger.”

“I am sorry about that, Professor,” she says hastily.

“You shouldn’t apologise,” he admits. “Your idea was a good one, in any case- about apparition. You did well, thinking on your feet.”  

“Oh,” she says. “Um, thank you.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, somewhat surprised at the actual compliment he’s afforded her. His mood today is giving her whiplash. “I suppose I should stop bothering you now. Good afternoon, Professor.”

She turns, scooping up her bag.

“No luck with the golden egg yet, I take it?” Riddle calls after her, and Hermione turns back, eyes narrowed.

“No,” she says delicately. “Not yet. It only screams when he opens it.”

“I see.” Riddle looks displeased. “And the other boy- Cedric. Has he figured it out?”

“I don’t know Cedric,” Hermione says honestly. “Though he and Harry have been speaking lately- I don’t know if I told you Professor, but Harry told Cedric about the dragons. Cedric says that he owes Harry, now.”

“Did he?” Riddle breathes, a calculating look about him. “Interesting.”

“Professor?” Hermione asks, not wanting to push her luck with her temperamental Professor, but curious all the same. “Why are you helping him so much?”

“On the contrary, Miss Granger,” Riddle says flippantly, “I haven’t helped Potter at all.”

Hermione shakes her head.

“You have,” she insists. “And you’re helping now. You’re going to help him with this clue, aren’t you? But why are you being so- so good to us?”

Not for the first time, Hermione wishes she could tell what he’s thinking. She certainly can’t discern much from his expression, jaw rigid, light dancing in his eyes.

“A Professor can’t favour his own students, Miss Granger?”

“Not ethically, no.”

“Hmm,” Professor Riddle says, lip curling up. “Not _ethically_. Well then, Miss Granger, I’m sure I don’t have an explanation that is satisfactory to you. Fortunately, as I am _not_ helping Potter _in any way_ , I don’t need one.”

Hermione swallows, about to play a rather dangerous game.  

“No,” she says. “But- if you were. If you were favouring your own students,” she hesitates, “I imagine you would tell them-?”

When Riddle smiles, he shows all his teeth.

“Open it in the correct environment, and the screams won’t sound like screams,” he shrugs. “ _Hypothetically_ , of course.”

Hermione’s heart is racing, victorious and guilty all at once. A _clue_.

And she had asked for it. She knew it was awfully improper, yet still, she asked.

And he had told her.

Just like that.

Because, what? He _likes_ them? Because he’s so attached to his Defence Against the Dark Arts class?

It doesn’t make sense, but Hermione is okay with that. It is going to help her get Harry through this Tournament alive, and so she _has_ to be okay with it.

“Thank you, Professor,” she says, meeting his eyes.

“The pleasure, Miss Granger,” he says, the picture of politeness, “is all mine.”

* * *

 

When Hermione finds them, by the fire at the Gryffindor Common Room, she fears that she has missed some awful tragedy.

Ron is sitting in the red velvet chair, Harry on his one side, Ginny on the other, each patting his arm, muttering comforting things beneath their breath, while Ron turns from white to green and back again, rocking back and forth with his knees clutched to his chest.

“ _Ron_?” Hermione says. “Ron, what’s happened, are you okay?”

She crouches on the floor beside Ginny, turning to her when Ron doesn’t speak.

“He’ll be okay,” Ginny says. “I think he’s just in shock right now.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“He-” Ginny hesitates, a flash of amusement crossing her face before she forces a vacant expression, “he just asked Fleur Delacour out.”

Hermione claps her hands over her face.

“ _Oh_. Oh _no_.”

She shakes her head, bewildered.

“Ron, I’m sorry, but honestly, what were you _thinking_?”

“I don’t think he was thinking at all, really,” Harry says. “It was weird, really. He just sort of started shouting at her.”

“It was a bit scary, really,” Ginny admits.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Ron chokes, horror written all over his face. “I just saw her there. You know how she is.”

“Yeah,” Ginny says, at the same time as Hermione and Harry say a resounding ‘no’.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” Ron goes on. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this. And I _still_ need to find someone to ask to this bloody Ball- god. I never want to talk to another girl ever again.”

“Don’t be silly, Ron,” Hermione says. “We’ll all go, as friends, won’t we Harry?”

“It’s easy for you two to say,” Ron moans. “The whole school thinks you’re on-off _lovers_ , anyway. You can just go together.”

“Yeah, that’d show Rita Skeeter,” Harry says sarcastically.

“Maybe Ron’s right,” Ginny suggests. “Everyone’s thinking it anyway. You may as well make it work for you.”

Harry and Hermione glance at each other. She sighs, turning back to Ron, who has turned a strange shade of grey now.

“Why don’t you come down with us to the Great Hall, have something to eat? I bet nobody even _saw_ you ask Fleur out.”

Ron stiffens, shakes his head rapidly.

“Malfoy,” he says, and Hermione winces.

“ _Malfoy_ saw? You’re joking,” she says, dispirited. “Never-mind that, then.”

“I don’t like this,” Ron says passionately. “Any of this. The sodding Tournament, _and_ the Ball. Haven't we had to deal with enough? First they make us fight dragons, then they make us ask people out?"

Just now, a group of younger girls, giggling, enter the Common Room, eyes all fixed on Harry.

Harry glances at them, a sense of dread filling his chest. 

“I know the feeling,” he mutters.

* * *

 

When the coast is clear of girls and boys shooting her dark looks and muttering something to the effect of ‘heartbreaker’, Hermione goes to the library – the one place, she has learned, that they will not follow.

Settling into her usual nook – the modest desk and chair by the corner candlelight, she makes a head-start on Charms revision.

When the shadow falls over her desk, so that she can no longer read the tiny words printed on the pages before her, she is apprehensive.

Apprehensive, because it could be Malfoy, come to taunt her about the _Daily Prophet_ , about class today. It could be another of Harry’s fans, come to shout at her for her _crimes_. It could even be Professor Riddle, and Hermione doesn’t think she can take another verbal spar with him today – she is too busy mulling over his words, the clue he had given her, the _reason_ he had given it –

“Excuse me.”

It is a deep voice. Not a girl, not Malfoy, not even Riddle.

Hermione frowns. She looks up.

Standing with his hands behind his back and his head politely inclined, is Viktor Krum.

“Oh,” Hermione says, surprise colouring her voice. “Yes, hello. How can I help you?”

She has never seen him in the library before. For a moment, she wonders whether he’s after help, finding a particular book. Then, of course, she remembers the article, how his name features in it just as hers does, and she flushes furiously.

_Wonderful._

“Hermiown-ninny, yes? I know what your news has said,” Krum says, without so much as a _hint_ of embarrassment. “English news. I am sorry that you have been involved in this ridiculous story.”

His brows are pulled together, and he looks so genuinely _concerned_ that her heart can’t help but stutter.

“Oh, thank you,” she says. “I’m sorry that you have been, too. It is so silly, isn’t it?”

“Silly,” Krum smiles. “Yes. But while I am not your _prey_ , like Rita Skeeter says, I must tell you that I find you -fascinating, yes? And beautiful, of course.”

Hermione blinks.

Well _that_ is certainly not what she had been expecting.

“Oh,” is her clever response.

“I am wondering, Ermiown-ninny,” he says, unevenly, as though he is _nervous_ , “if you are not already going with somebody- would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me? I would like the chance to get to know you. Very much.”

Hermione’s lips are parted, and for a moment, she just stares at him.

He is rather good-looking, of course, not that she has really let herself notice before. It had never mattered before. But now, he is asking her to go to the _Ball_ with him, and she can’t help but notice that his eyes are _open_ and warm, kind. Of course, she cannot know that he is kind. She cannot know anything about him. But, well, is that not the point of the Yule Ball? To get to know people?

There is also the fact that everybody already thinks that they’re involved anyway. If she’s going to get her hands blown up for something, perhaps she should actually be doing it? Perhaps-

“Oh,” she breathes. “I confess, I’m not quite sure what I should say.”

“You should say whatever you want to say, Ermiown-ninny,” Krum says firmly. “It eez alright, if you cannot say yes to me.”

“But I would like to say yes to you,” Hermione finds herself saying, and it is truly a most strange experience, hearing herself say those words. Hearing herself say ‘yes’ to a strange, handsome boy who has asked her to a dance. “I would like to get to know you, too, Viktor.”

She didn’t ask whether she should call him that, and for a moment, she panics – she should have asked-

But Krum’s face has split into the brightest beam the instant the word ‘yes’ left her mouth, and he has grabbed her hand, bringing it gently to his lips and brushing them against her knuckles- and Hermione feels _giddy._

She still does, even after he bids her goodnight and wishes her luck with her studies. Even after she returns to the dormitories, and pulls her sheets close around her.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 

Harry’s hair is a disaster and his glasses are awry when he wakes, face falling flat against the cedar surface of the table.

This is the third night this week that he has found himself asleep, sprawled across a desk in the library, though through sheer exhaustion or through boredom, he can’t say.

He glares pointedly at the golden egg where it sits, arrogantly, he rather thinks, in front of him. It is, of course, all _its_ fault.

The egg has become his burden to bear of late, in quite the literal sense. He can scarcely believe that he was once relieved to have finally got his hands on it; once determined to keep it safe.

Now, he finds himself fantasising about marching up to the very top of the Astronomy Tower and flinging it over the edge, if only so he doesn’t have to hear that bloody _screaming_ ever again.

Sighing, his eyes scan over the list he began scrawling the moment Hermione told him about what Professor Riddle had said about the egg.

 _Open it in the correct environment, and the screams won’t sound like screams_.

 So Harry has tried.

He tried opening it up-side down. Tried opening it in the open air, and again, deep in the dungeons. He’s tried opening it with magic, and not his hands. He’s tried _cracking_ it open. He’s tried opening it in every room he walks into.

Each time, he only hears screaming.

So, much to Hermione’s delight, he has turned at last to books.

“You too, huh?”

Harry knows that voice, rather well at this point. Leaning against a bookshelf with his arms folded and his hair ruffled, Cedric Diggory gives him an empathetic look.

It is almost disconcerting, how the boy seems to be everywhere, these days. In the corridor in front of him on the way to breakfast, jogging near the Quidditch Pitch when Harry heads out to fly, clear his head. Or perhaps it is merely that Harry has started looking for him, everywhere, somewhere in the very back of his mind.

What is most bizarre, though, is the way that his presence makes Harry feel warm, comfortable, somehow.

He supposes it is because Cedric understands.

As much as a person _can_ understand, anyway. Of course, Cedric doesn’t know what it feels like to be thrust into a competition you intended to watch from afar with a detached kind of interest. At least he gets, more than Ron, more even than Hermione, how it feels to look a dragon in the eye and know that it is only it, and you. At least he gets how it feels to carry a deceptively heavy golden egg around that shrieks at you whenever you try to open it.

“I haven’t found a damn thing. But I think if I hear that screaming one more time, I might just give up,” he says dryly. “Wing the second task. How hard can it be, _really_?”

“I’ve been there,” Cedric says. “Physically, actually. I fell asleep in that chair last night,” he grins. “Before I thought I rather fancied a bath.”

“Oh,” Harry blinks. He and Cedric are on pretty good terms, but the detail about the bath?  “That’s- great, Cedric?”

Cedric chuckles, shakes his head.

“Look,” he says, abandoning the shelf he’s been leaning into and leaning over Harry’s table, eyes earnest, “I’m going to tell you something, and it’s going to sound mad. But dragons sounded mad too, and I owe you, Harry.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, properly awake, now.

 _He knows something_ , he realises, and the anticipation of it, the hope, sends a shiver from his neck to his spine.

Harry nods, leaning in without ever really deciding to, waiting.

“I recommend it,” Cedric says simply. “A bath. Gives you a chance to clear your head.” His lip twitches, as though at a joke, though the punchline is lost on Harry. “Just, uh, take the egg. Mull things over in the hot water, yeah?”

Harry’s brow furrows, disappointed.

He could be wrong, of course, but it _sort of_ sounds like Cedric’s hot tip really is just to take a bath, and have a _good_ think.

Harry tries not to look too ungrateful when he says ‘thanks’.

“Told you it’d sound mad,” Cedric supplies with a shrug. “I hope you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt.”

Just as Harry had asked he, Cedric, to do the same, not long ago, on the grassy hill overlooking the grounds, he thinks.

“Alright,” Harry allows, and just like that, Cedric’s signature smile is back in place.

Harry can’t help but stare a little. After all, it is magnetic. How _genuine_ it seems, always, even if he’s about to fight a dragon. Even if Malfoy’s being obnoxious and he’s ignoring him in his entireity. Even if he’s helping his adversary in the Tournament out with a clue.

Cedric clears his throat, and with a start, Harry realises that he has been staring at him for quite some time now.

“So,” Cedric says, “uh, how are you? Uncooperative egg aside.”

 _How are you_?

It’s been a while since anybody has asked him that, outside of the context of this Tournament. Outside of the context of his burning scar.

So long, Harry is silent for a moment, unsure how to answer.

“Good. I’ve good. How uh, how are you, Cedric?”

“I’ll be a lot better once this whole Yule Ball mania ends, I’ll tell you that much,” Cedric confesses.

“Can’t blame you, there,” Harry says. “I’ve got no clue how to dance, and, well, I haven’t thought to ask anyone yet.”

To his immense surprise, Cedric nods.

“Exactly,” he says, hands in the air in exasperation. “Everybody seems so set on it. To tell you the truth, Harry, I’m not at all looking forward to having to ask somebody. That, and as it turns out, I’m not very good at rejecting invitations.”

“You’ve been rejecting invitations?” Harry says, amused, though, with a single glance over Cedric – his wiry, muscular form, his winning smile – he can’t say he’s surprised. “Must be a hard life.”

He doesn’t mention Elizabeth, the Hufflepuff girl who flounced off in a huff when he, in his own, bumbling way, rejected her, too.

“Cho Chang,” Cedric admits, cheeks coloured, albeit faintly. “I don’t know why I said no, to be honest. We get along quite well. Anyway, I’m worried I completely botched it. I hope I haven’t offended her.”

Harry nearly laughs at that.

“Cedric,” he says seriously, “I’m the fourth Champion. Out to steal your thunder and all that, if you believe what everyone’s been saying since day one of this whole Tournament. You never managed to offend _me_. I’m sure Cho’s absolutely fine.”

“Well, _you_ never asked me to the Ball,” Cedric points out.

“I might yet,” Harry jokes. “Worst case.”

Cedric grins, and there is some feeling in it that Harry can’t put his finger on, except that he can’t help but think that this smile isn’t half as genuine as usual. It is frozen, somehow. It is masking _something_.

“Worst case.”

Harry eyes the other boy for a lingering moment, half-tempted to ask him if anything is the matter. He stops himself. Cedric is his competition, he reminds himself. Even if it doesn’t feel that way now. Even if he’s playing nice. Harry did him a favour, and he’s tried to repay it, and that’s that. He has no right to ask.

He swallows.

“Well,” he says, “If I do, I’ll let you know how much your rejection stings.”

Cedric laughs at that, soft and low in his throat.

“Well then,” Cedric clears his throat, straightening up, “I should be getting to the dormitories. Careful – it’s nearly curfew.”

Harry nods.

“Yeah- I won’t be staying long,” he says. He catches Cedric’s eye. “Come to think of it, I think I feel like taking a bath.”  

* * *

 

“The Black Lake?”

Hermione hisses it under her breath over her croissant, astonished.

Harry jerks his head once, an attempt at subtlety in the crowded Hall.

“Oh, Harry, I’m – well, this is excellent,” she says. She tries not to sound too surprised, but if the look Harry shoots her is anything to go by, it seems her expression has betrayed her.

Not, she thinks, that her surprise is unreasonable. When she last spoke to Harry, last night, at dinner, he was the physical manifestation of a deflated party balloon, dejected and ready to accept his probable death in a second task that he would walk into utterly blind. That somehow, between then, and this morning, he’s _figured it out_ , he’s heard the clue, a riddle, he told her, a song –

“I’m really impressed,” she says under her breath. “Underwater? Whatever gave you the _idea_?- but of course, it’s like Professor Riddle said-”

“Careful,” Harry murmurs, nodding pointedly to the cluster of Beauxbatons girls, all smiles and laughs on their way in.

Hermione stops abruptly, taking what she hopes is an inconspicuous sip of tea.

When they pass, Harry leans in, whispering.

“Cedric. He figured it out.”

Hermione takes it in.

She had thought it was decent of Harry, of course, to tell Cedric about the dragons. It was fair, it was the right thing to do, in all the circumstances- even if, from a strategic perspective, it was rather a poor decision. Now, she thinks that perhaps it was the best choice Harry could have made. After all, Cedric Diggory, it seems, is made up of honour and optimism. If Harry helps him, he will do all that he can to help Harry, because he has enough faith in himself to win anyway.

It is the perfect arrangement.

“What are you two whispering about? Breaking Potter’s _dear_ heart again, Granger? Don’t mind if I watch.”

Malfoy’s voice, unwelcome as it is, always and forever, disrupts her thoughts.

“Don’t mind them. They’re just talking about your dad,” Ron cuts in, climbing into the seat beside Hermione, and she is relieved at his sudden presence. She doesn’t think she’s capable of dealing with Malfoy today. “How much his outfit at the World Cup suited him. That _mask_ really did _wonders_ for his eyes.”

Malfoy snarls.

“I wouldn’t cast aspersions on _my_ father if I were you, Weasley. He could have yours fired.”

Ron seems to sober up at that, real anger sculpting the perfect scowl.

“Whatever. Is the Gryffindor Table your regular haunt now, or is there another reason you’re hanging around?”

“Keep dreaming, Weasley,” Malfoy says coolly. “After your display with Fleur Delacour, I’m amazed Potter and Granger are willing to be _seen_ with you. I simply wanted to offer my best wishes for Potter and Granger. I hope your relationship repairs. Be awful if you both ended up alone at the Yule Ball. Embarrassing, even.”

He grins widely.

“I’ll see you in class.”

He saunters off, head high, like he’s proud of his contribution to their morning.

“He really is _horrid_ ,” Hermione remarks.

“He’s not wrong,” Ron says grimly. “We’ve got to get on top of this Ball thing. Practically everyone’s got a date now. Fucking _Neville’s_ taking my sister, and Dean’s going with some fit Ravenclaw bird-”

“Woman,” Hermione interjects automatically.

“-woman,” Ron says hastily. “Point is, if we don’t get a move on, all the good ones will be gone.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Hermione demands.

“Oh, come on, Hermione,” Rons says, exasperated. “Sure, you’re a bloody genius and probably part robot, but you’ve still got _eyes_. You know what I mean.”

Hermione huffs.

“On the contrary, Ronald,” she says, “I’ve no idea what you mean, but I’m sure it’s perfectly offensive- and _misogynistic_. If you took the time to dignify girls who might not look like _Fleur Delacour_ with your attentions, I’m sure you’d find they’d make for a wonderful, _interesting_ evening.”

“ _Ha_ ,” Ron says, clapping his hands together in triumph, “I see what this is. You’re upset ‘cause nobody’s asked you yet.”

“Not at all,” she says. “I just thought I’d give a friend some advice.”

Ron snorts.

“Believe me, in this department, you _need_ more advice than you can give.”

Hermione pauses at that, tea-cup halfway to her mouth. She isn’t prepared for how much it hurts her to hear those words. It’s silly. After all, she _has_ a date, not that she’ll tell Ronald that, now. And _he_ called her beautiful. Not that it matters – that he thinks she is beautiful. She would sooner somebody call her clever, passionate. So what if Ron thinks she’s particularly unattractive? It’s _Ron_ , after all, and in any case, Hermione doesn’t _care_ what she looks like, never has.

“Ron, don’t be an idiot,” Harry says, giving the other boy a warning look. “Besides, I’d take the advice if I were you, mate.”

“What about you?” Ron turns the tables on him. “Got your eye on anyone yet? Clock’s ticking, and after your disaster with Elizabeth, I’m not sure too many _women_ will be lining up to get rejected by you anymore- or men, for that matter.”

Harry sighs.

“Nah,” he says flatly. “No-one.”

Ron starts talking again, something about how Harry should ask a Beauxbatons girl, or branch out and ask someone from Durmstrang, if nothing else, for the sake of the ‘sick accents’. Hermione isn’t listening.

Instead, she watches Harry. Because he isn’t listening to Ron either. _His_ eyes are elsewhere.

At the Hufflepuff table, to be precise.

And when she follows his gaze, it leads her to Cedric Diggory, laughing with the boy beside him over eggs and toast soldiers.

* * *

 

The Defence Against the Dark Arts class is tense today, and there are two reasons why.

First, because this is the very last lesson they’ll have with Professor Riddle before the Yule Ball, and, ever since he arrived at Hogwarts and even after being moved to tears by the harsh critique that has accompanied every piece of returned work he has given her, Lavender Brown remains resolved to ask him to accompany her to the dance.

Second, and, in Hermione’s opinion, far more pressing, today, Professor Riddle is teaching them to perform dark magic – courtesy of Hermione’s pleas to spare Polly the _gryphon_. The mere thought of Unforgiveable Curses, the way they sound, chills Hermione to her heart. Her wand almost reacts to it, feels cold, reluctant, heavier to wield.

Lavender, it seems, isn’t at all bothered by the chilling agenda for today’s class. She’s placed charms on her curls that have them positively shining, and she’s wearing a great deal of perfume that reminds Hermione of Rita Skeeter, and the sickly-sweet air that seems to cling to her, to envelope the Champion’s tent.

“Are you sure about this, Lavender?” Parvati says, uneasy. “I know we all have a good laugh talking about it, but actually _doing_ it? It seems a little inappropriate. Is he even _allowed_ to say yes?”

“ _Of course_ not,” Hermione says, at the same time as Lavender retorts,

“Ye of little faith.”

“So you’re just going to ask him?” Parvati says, incredulous. “In _class_?”

“Not precisely,” Lavender says with a wink, and Hermione’s brow furrows, wondering in spite of herself what she means by it.

“Ten galleons says he says no, and she cries,” Malfoy declares. “Any takers?”

“You’re on, _Draco_ ,” Lavender says at once.

Malfoy looks hugely entertained.

“ _Fantastic_.”

“ _Honestly_ ,” Hermione says under her breath, exchanging a look with Harry, and Ron, who looks as though he isn’t quite sure whether he’s amused or concerned. Before he can make up his mind, cold air whistles into the classroom with the force of the slamming door, announcing Professor Riddle’s arrival.

While his wand is nowhere to be seen, there is a wooden box levitating in front of him, gliding along until it reaches his desk.

Seamus whistles low under his breath, impressed.  

“Alright,” Professor Riddle begins, turning to face them. In a single motion, he has discarded his coat, leaving him only in his tunic, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The mere sight of him makes her shiver, drawing her own coat in to hug her form, yet he appears entirely comfortable. Hermione is starting to think he simply doesn’t feel the cold. “If you will all retrieve your wands. Today’s lesson is an entirely practical one, and I’ve no intention of delaying it further.”

Hermione slides her hand into her pocket, obedient, fingers closing delicately around her wand.

As the rest of the class scramble through their bags for their own, Riddle goes on. With the mere nod of his head, the box, now resting upon his desk, opens with a croak.

“As you are well aware, you are going to now make your attempts at performing Dark Magic. The reason for this is to develop your understanding of the kind of control, of _power_ , required to cast such magic, so that you are better able to understand how it is most appropriately _controlled_ , regulated.”

At that, something emerges from the box. Rather, dozens of somethings, small and wriggling and floating through air towards each of them –

Ron pales, suppressing a moan.

 _Spiders_ , she realises.

Hermione winces as one drops onto her desk, and another onto Harry’s, beside her, the decidedly unpleasant noise of falling insects persisting until they all have one scrambling in front of them.

“These,” Riddle instructs, “are your subjects. Spiders are weak creatures, mentally speaking. They won’t give you any resistance or difficulties. The only challenge you will face today is yourself. You will recall that Unforgiveable Curses will never work if the curser does not possess a genuine intention to give effect to the spell.”

Hermione swallows past a lump in her throat. That is the goal today, then, she supposes. To become the kind of person who intends to perform Unforgiveable magic.

“Please, Sir,” Ron croaks, looking rather ill indeed, seat drawn back as far as it can from his desk. “Can’t we use something else?”

“You’re a fool to fear _spiders_ , Weasley,” Professor Riddle says dismissively, “but a fortunate one. Your fear should give you something of an advantage today, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ron gulps.

“Let me be clear,” Riddle continues, firm. “Today we shall attempt the Imperius Curse. Attempt anything else, and you will earn yourself a detention, is that understood?”

There’s a low murmur of ‘yes, Sir’ across the room.

A tight smile spreads across their Professor’s face.

“Wonderful,” he says. He leans in. “ _Begin_.”

* * *

 

Hermione is frozen.

Granted, if nothing else, she is frozen in perfect position. Her wand is bound tightly between her fingers, and she’s directed it pointedly at the spider crawling about her desk with idle curiosity, feet planted in proper duelling form, one in front of the other, with both knees bent.

If she were to cast the Imperius Curse now, it would land squarely on her target, there is no doubt about it.

The trouble is, she can’t quite bring herself to say it.

“ _Imperio.”_

_“Imperio!”_

_“_ Bloody hell… _Imperio!”_

The muttering incantations around the class have Hermione feeling oddly numb. It is as though she is in some peculiar dream world in which the Unforgiveables are not really so Unforgiveable after all; in which it is only she who is left cringing at the sound of it.

“ _Today_ , Granger,” Riddle, who’s spent the better part of the last half hour circling the room, not unlike a bird of prey, has reached her, hands on hips and eyebrows up, waiting.

“Yes, Sir,” she breathes, determined.

She forces herself to look at the spider before her. It’s a rather pathetic-looking thing; limbs so thin they hardly appear _real_ at all, like twigs, or paper. It is only a set of beady eyes that hints that there is somebody home, some conscious thing living in that fragile frame.

It should be easy enough, she thinks, to pretend that it is only a _thing_ , after all. Just a silly, unfeeling _thing_.  

She wonders if it has children.

Gritting her teeth, chest rising and falling as her heart races faster, as her stomach twists, Hermione spits out the word, as though it was caught it her throat.  

“ _Imperio_.”

Whether it is to her dismay, or immense relief, she does not know; but Hermione’s spell simply bounces off the back of the insect, leaving it obliviously venturing the length of her desk.

If Professor Riddle is disappointed, he has the grace not to show it. He only moves closer to Hermione, lifting her wand arm a fraction higher than it is, holding it firmly in place in the palm of his hand.  

“You dropped your form,” he tells her. His breath is warm in the cold, so much so that Hermione has to stop herself from leaning closer into it. “Try again. You’re over-thinking it.”

She hesitates, eyes seeking his.

She doesn’t _want_ to do this. But more than that, _so_ much more than that, she doesn’t want to fail just because it isn’t her cup of tea.

She wants to snap _out_ of this, to remember that a spider is only a spider, that this is a valuable educational opportunity. She wants to stop the incessant voice in her head telling her that this is all _wrong_ , whether it is in a classroom or not. She wants to stop the other voice, deeper in her mind, darker, that is telling her how very weak she is, how _small-minded_ , to be so easily flustered by the slightest ambiguity.

She would die, of course, before admitting any of this to Professor Riddle.

At the look in his eyes, though, the _understanding_ there, it seems she does not have to.

“Take your time,” he says quietly.

Grateful, Hermione nods. She draws in air, sharply, readying herself to say it again, only this time, she will _mean_ it, but –

“ _Imperio._ Ha! Look at this!”

Malfoy’s smug outburst rings out across the room, and, distracted, she glances to his desk.

“Roll over,” Malfoy mutters, sardonic, drawing a circle with his wand, and the spider on his desk falls over itself spinning, as he commands. He laughs out loud in delight. “Professor!” Eagerly, he points down at his creation.

Professor Riddle releases Hermione’s arm.

“Well done, Mr Malfoy,” he says measuredly, though he doesn’t look nearly as pleased as Hermione thought he might.

 Evidently, Malfoy was expecting more, too.

“That’s all?” he says. “No House Points? I’ve _only_ managed to cast the Imperius Curse before anyone else here- let alone Golden Girl over there.” He jerks his head in Hermione’s direction. “Guess you’re not so brilliant after all, are you, Granger?”

Hermione clenches her jaw, but she does not answer, eyes falling to her shoes. They’re rather worse for wear, she notes- could use a polish. She wonders if a mere _‘scourgify’_ would do much for them, _deliberately_ wonders, if only to tune Malfoy out.

“You’ve done well, Mr Malfoy,” Riddle repeats, curtly. “Now, if you would be so good as to assist Mr Goyle.”

“’Course,” Malfoy grins widely. “Maybe I could even assist you, eh, Granger?” he calls over again, begging, it seems, for a response.

Hermione’s cheeks feel very hot.

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” she manages.  

“You look down,” Malfoy comments, words dripping with mock concern. “Don’t worry. I suspect it’s a natural shortcoming of those of your background.”

The room is suddenly still, the mutters of ‘ _imperio’_ , the scattered chatter, coming to a jarring halt. Parvati flashes a sympathetic look, and Harry, beside her, places a steady hand on her arm, as though to remind her that he is there.

It is Ron who breaks the silence, voice unsteady, _angry_.

“Her _what_?”

Of course, he knows what. They all do.

_Mudblood._

Hermione still dreams about the first time he said it, second year, over some quarrel about Quidditch, still remembers the harsh blow it had landed in her chest, the _ugly_ sound of the word.

Malfoy shrugs, defensive.

“It makes sense. Don’t pretend like it doesn’t. Muggle blood, of course you’re not going to be as powerful – you _can’t_ be.”

Hermione closes her eyes. She wishes Harry had brought his Invisibility Cloak to class, that she might slip under it and disappear. That she might even cry, with nobody there to see it.

It was never a _secret_ to Hermione that she might be at something of a disadvantage at Hogwarts, growing up the way she did. She _expected_ it, from the moment she got her letter; learned that, scattered across England was a whole _world_ of girls and boys, just like her, who lived their lives knowing full well that one day, Hogwarts would call for them. _Lived_ in this parallel universe where brooms are not just for sweeping; where garden gnomes are a pest and a menace and _not_ a novelty decoration; where torturers never get their hands dirty, a slim stick of wood their only weapon; where the pictures move and live within their frames. _So what?_ She had told herself. All the more to learn. All the harder to try. And if she tried hard _enough_ , she thought, she would be as good as the best of them. She would earn it, and there was no reason at all why that shouldn’t be allowed to be the truth.

Merlin, she _needs_ that to be the truth.

But she hates Malfoy now. Hates him beyond words. And it is not because he is trying to humiliate her in front of the whole class.

 It is because she is afraid that he is right. Afraid that for every book that she’s read that he hasn’t, every incantation she’s memorised that he still stammers over, there is a raw power in him that she can never match.

Professor Riddle clears his throat.

Hermione can’t bear to look at him; can’t bear to look at anyone. Her eyes sting at the sides, a symptom of the tears that she knows will betray her, if she gives them the chance.

Fortunately, it seems his attentions are fixed solely on Malfoy.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Mr Malfoy,” Riddle is saying, lightly, “but I can assure you that the only thing _definitively_ demonstrated by your affinity to _imperio_ is that of your classmates, you are the most eager to appropriate another’s free will. If you hoped that it was also somehow a reflection of your great _power_ , you are _gravely_ mistaken.”

“Yes, Sir,” Malfoy mutters.

 If nothing else, Riddle seems to have killed his buzz.

 “As to anyone’s _background_ ,” Riddle says delicately, not, it seems, finished, “If I may impart some sorely needed advice, I think you’ll find, given your _own_ background, Mr Malfoy, that it is in your best interests to steer clear of the topic altogether.”

At that, Hermione’s head snaps up, eyes wide in disbelief, even as the class descends into gasps and murmurs.

Malfoy looks no less shocked than she feels, mouth ajar, some sentiment souring his features that Hermione has never seen him wear before. He is angry, of course, furious, even, and proud- but if she didn’t know better, and she is not sure that she does, she could swear he looks _ashamed_.

Beside her, Harry and Ron share an inconspicuous high-five.

“Blimey _,_ ” Ron mutters, awe-struck. “He’s speechless. _Malfoy,_ speechless. I think I love Riddle.”  

Harry, hand still resting on Hermione’s arm, gives her a small nudge.

“You okay?” he whispers.

Hermione gives a gruff nod in response.

She is rather occupied, now, looking at Professor Riddle. His lips are twisted upward, smiling, if only a little- that _polite_ smile that he wore when he was patronising her answers, his very first lesson. She wonders what on earth possessed him to say that, of all things. She wonders how on earth, being an Ilvermorny alumni, he was so well versed in the history of the Malfoys. Most of all, she wonders whether he means by that what she thinks he means. That the rumours about the Malfoys are true. That when You Know Who Fell, it was a dark day in the Malfoy Manor.

“That was _not_ an invitation to gossip like children,” Riddle says pointedly to the room at large. “Though as it happens, you are dismissed for today. I expect each of you to practice your incantation and form _rigorously_ for homework. As for Mr Malfoy, perhaps your task ought to be to practice holding your tongue.”

“Uh, Professor?” Harry asks mildly. “What should we do with the spiders?”

Professor Riddle sighs, exasperated.

“Never you mind that,” he says, and, with the laziest flick of his wand, the spiders are in the air again, legs scrambling for a solid surface on the route back to the box they came from.

Ron shudders.

“Homework?” Seamus pipes up. “But, Sir, tomorrow night’s the Yule Ball.”

Professor Riddle raises a single eyebrow.

“So it is,” he says flatly.  

“Aren’t _you_ going, Professor?” Lavender says, finally, _finally_ , asking the question that she’s been dying to since she first spotted Professor Riddle striding down the Great Hall with perfect hair and a voice to, in her own terms, ‘die for’.

“Urgent matters to attend to. These spiders aren’t going to sort themselves by size, after all.”

Hermione supresses a grin at that.

Lavender, to her credit, smiles, cheeks only slightly pink.

“I see,” she says. “In any case,” she pulls something from her bag, a silver box with a bright bow rather boldly sitting in the middle. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Lavender approaches Professor Riddle, smile ever so slightly coy, “Given the spirit of the occasion, I thought I’d get you a token of appreciation. On behalf of the class, of course,” she gestures around the room. “Chocolates.” She holds the gift out for him to take.

Riddle’s eyes drop from Lavender’s face to the box, eyebrow quirking at the bow. He does not reach out to take it, and Lavender’s smile starts to falter.

At least Malfoy is in no state to laugh at her now, Hermione figures.

“I, um,” Lavender mutters, “I’ll… leave it on your desk? Shall I?”

“Perfect,” Riddle says, smile razor-thin. He doesn’t add another word. Not to her, anyway.

“Granger,” he says instead, “if you’ll stay back for a moment.”

Crestfallen, Lavender shuffles to the front of the class. Her hands are shaking when she places the gift beside the box with all the spiders.

After Malfoy, she is the first to leave, so hasty her bag is only half-shut as she heads out the door.

* * *

 

“That wasn’t very nice,” Hermione says, when everybody else has filed out, Harry and Ron rushing off to the Quidditch Pitch for some mock game with promises to find her later, and the moment she does, Riddle fixes her with an incredulous look.

“ _That wasn’t very nice_?” he repeats. “ _That’s_ what’s bearing on your mind right now?”

Hermione flushes, but she goes on.

“She wanted to give you a gift,” she points out. “It’s quite rude not to say ‘ _thank you_ ’, you know.”

Professor Riddle shakes his head, amused, but there is some hard edge to it that catches her curiosity.

“I am well aware of what basic decency entails, Miss Granger,” he says. “Though I hardly think they apply, upon receipt of a ‘gift’ laced with love potion.”

Hermione draws in a breath sharply, certain she’s heard him wrong.

“ _What_?”

Professor Riddle nods, raising Lavender’s gift to his nose and sniffing, once.

“A poorly brewed love potion at that.” He grimaces. “Forgive me for not thanking Miss Brown for this particular token of _appreciation_.”

“But,” Hermione says, astounded, “but that’s _terrible_! I can’t believe that Lavender would really do this, Professor. It’s- well, it’s definitely illegal, but what’s more, it is effectively a _poison_ , and to poison a _teacher_ -let alone _anybody -_ I mean, the _effects_ of a love potion-”

“Amount to something quite analogous to the Imperius Curse,” Professor Riddle finishes colourlessly, “and in the worst of cases, result in rape, naturally.”

Hermione shakes her head, staring at the box in his hands, all dressed up in ribbons. Her head is positively _reeling_.

“How did you know?”

Professor Riddle laughs without humour.

“Miss Brown’s rather alarming fixation with me has not escaped my attention, Miss Granger,” he says. “Nor have her plans to, against all protocol _and_ logic, have me escort her to the Yule Ball.” He snorts. “That, and love potions have a distinct scent. A pretty little box is hardly sufficient to mask it.”

Hermione nods.

“ _Oh_ , yes. I’ve read about them.”

They adopt the scent of whatever attracts the subject the most, of course, though she doesn’t see fit to say it in front of Riddle.

She does, however, lean over the gift, curiosity getting the better of her, and she takes a deep breath in -

Riddle is faster.

In an instant, he has dropped the chocolates into the bin by his desk with an ungraceful rattle.

“Yes, well,” he says unevenly. “In any case. That is hardly why I asked that you stay.”

At that, Hermione’s eyes fall to the floor, Malfoy’s words still fresh in her mind.

“I,” Hermione begins, searching for something to say. “I am used to it,” she says shortly.

Riddle purses his lips distastefully.

“Used to it,” he repeats, apparently deep in thought. “I see.”

“Thank you,” she says. “For what you said.”

Riddle shakes his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Mr Malfoy was labouring under a misapprehension. It was my job to correct it.”

“Thank you,” Hermione says, firmly. “Job or not.”

Professor Riddle simply looks at her, a pensive look about him, before he inclines his head in acceptance.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says suddenly. “Not being able to cast _imperio._ It speaks to your stubborn character, I daresay.”

“And that’s nothing to be ashamed of?” Hermione raises her eyebrows, surprised at him. 

“Not at all.” He is _unequivocal_ , so much so that Hermione pauses just to appraise him. For all that he has done for her, and it is a considerable list at this point, she still cannot quite place him.

“Harry figured it out,” she clears her throat. “The egg, I mean.”

Why, exactly, she’s telling him, she can’t be certain. He’s told her in no uncertain terms that he could care less for this Tournament. His actions, though, have ever and always pointed to something else. He’d want to know, she thinks, and so she tells him.

Sure enough, he leans forward, attention duly captivated.

“That was quick,” he remarks.

“It was,” she draws in a breath. “And I should be helping him prepare. Thank you for- checking on me, Professor. I’m alright, truly.”

“I know you’re alright,” he says, as though it would be folly to suggest he would ever think otherwise.

Hermione shifts her bag’s strap across her shoulder, eyes finding themselves drawn back to the wrapped chocolates, sticking out of the bin. She shivers involuntarily.

Riddle follows her gaze clinically.

“If you hadn’t known what it was,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Merlin.”

“It was impossible to miss,” he waves his hand dismissively.

“This Yule Ball truly is driving everybody mad,” she remarks, almost to herself.

Professor Riddle tilts his head. 

“And you, Granger?”

“ _Me_?” she says. “Well, I should think the whole thing’s silly, to be honest, Sir.”

“Well you’re not missing much, I can assure you," he muses. 

“Oh, well, actually, I, um, am going,” Hermione qualifies, and the memory of Viktor Krum, lips brushing over her hand, has her turning bright red.

“Oh,” Professor Riddle says, and she doesn’t know whether she ought to be offended at the surprised flavour to his voice. “I see. In that case, I suppose I will see you tomorrow evening.”

It is Hermione’s turn to be surprised, now.

“I thought you told Lavender you weren’t going at all?”

“Because,” he articulates, slowly, “she was trying to smuggle me a love potion. I thought it best not to encourage her affections. However, all staff _are_ encouraged to attend.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, and for some inexplicable reason that she can’t name, her heart quickens, if a little, at the thought that she might see him there. Hermione scolds herself for it. She’s not _Lavender_ , she tells herself, adamant.

Besides, she’ll have a perfectly lovely boy escorting her there, more than deserving of her attentions.

Riddle inclines his head towards the door, the ghost of a smile at his lips.

“I believe you were hurrying off to do all of Potter’s work for him?” he suggests delicately.

Hermione gives him a stern look, but she cannot help but smile.

“See you tomorrow night, Professor.”

_See you tomorrow night._

It only takes Hermione the length of the corridor to recognise the feeling that has settled down in her chest. She’s felt it before, when Krum asked her to the dance. When she said yes.

_Giddy._

And oh, Merlin knows, she really _shouldn’t_.

* * *

 

When Harry approaches Cedric, lazing with his friends in the Courtyard under the great oak tree, something rather peculiar happens.

There’s Xavier, a rather short boy wearing wide spectacles, and a girl with long plaits, Cedric in the middle, and no less than _two_ miraculous things accompany the view. First, none of them, not even Xavier, are wearing one of the now iconic ‘Potter Stinks’ badges fixed to the front of their robes. Second, and more bizarre yet, they _smile_ at him when they spot him, _waving_ , even. The girl calls out his name, beckoning him over.

Harry glances at Cedric, stunned. What on earth had the boy done to earn Harry this welcome?

“Harry!” Cedric grins, swinging his legs around from where they are resting across the roots of the tree and bounding to his feet, “Hey, everyone, this is Harry. Harry, you’ve met Xavier before-”

“Hey,” Xavier says, somewhat bashfully.

“-and this is Peter, and Nora.”

Peter waves in greeting, while Nora gives him a wide smile.

“ _Finally,_ we meet him!” she says, shooting Cedric a look. “Listen, we heard about what you did – telling our Cedric about the first task.” She leans in, plaits swinging. “Don’t worry, we won’t tell a soul, of course- but thanks, Potter. You’re alright.”

“Oh, thank you,” Harry says, still taking it all in – it being that Cedric’s friends _don’t_ hate him, for some reason.

“Uh, Cedric, I was hoping to talk to you.”

Xavier grins at that, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

“Hear that, Ced?” he says, some playful edge to his voice that Harry doesn’t understand.

Cedric, Harry is surprised to note, has turned pink.

 “Of course! Just a moment, guys.”

Ever agreeable, Cedric walks with Harry out of earshot of the group, leaning in.

“What’s up?” Cedric says, and either it’s Harry’s imagination, or his voice is uncharacteristically high.

“I just wanted to thank you,” Harry says. “For the uh, idea with the bath. It was really _enlightening_.”

Cedric grins.

“Sometimes a good bath really is _all_ you need,” he says seriously, though his eyes, glinting, say something different, and Harry can’t help but grin back.

“Really, thank you,” Harry insists. “I really don’t know if I would’ve ever figured it out, if you hadn’t told me. I was ready to flush it down the toilet – it was next up on my list.”  

Cedric laughs heartily.

 “Anytime, Potter, anytime.” He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder, towards the small cluster of yellow. Xavier, it seems, is mouthing something at him, rather adamantly. “Blimey,” he murmurs. When he turns back to Harry, he is agitated.

“Alright, Harry. There’s something- I suppose – there’s something I should ask you.” His jaw is tight, and Harry’s heart sinks, waiting for his next words. It’s too good to be true, of course, how amicable his friends have been. Probably all part of some great prank, to take Harry down. Some part of a ‘Potter Stinks’ campaign.

“What is it?” he says cautiously, wondering whether he should be reaching for his wand or keeping a tight grip on his pants, lest someone tries to cast them off him.

 Cedric looks rather pale.

“I thought,” he draws in a breath, eyes closed for a moment-

And then he says something that Harry never, in a million years, would have guessed he might say.

 “I thought it mightn’t be a bad idea for us to go to the Yule Ball. Together, that is. As co-champions, you know. It’d let Hogwarts know that there are no hard feelings – get everyone to leave you alone.”

Go to the Yule Ball.

_Together._

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry says, dumbstruck, and perhaps, _only perhaps_ , something else, too, if he’s game to admit it.

Cedric isn’t smiling, and that in itself has Harry feeling rather odd, because it looks _wrong_. Instead, his eyes are wide and earnest, scanning Harry’s face, brows furrowed, as though _he_ is the one bracing himself.

“Or as friends,” the boy says hastily. “There’s no rule against going as friends, and-”

“Cedric,” Harry says slowly, “I don’t want you to go to the Ball with me to try to get people to leave me alone.”

Cedric steps back.

“Oh.”

“I mean, for _that_ reason,” Harry corrects himself, “I don’t want you to not go with someone you want to go with to help _me_ out. You’re not a martyr.”

At that, there’s some light in Cedric’s eyes that looks to flicker on, like a candle.

“I’m not,” Cedric says. “The thing is, Harry, there’s nobody I want to go with.” He hesitates. “Besides, it isn’t so bad, is it? The idea of going with me, I mean.” He grins as that, tightly, _nervously_.

Cedric Diggory, Harry muses, the terribly charismatic seventh year, Hogwarts Champion, the _real_ Hogwarts Champion, and he is nervous that _Harry_ might say no.

Harry hesitates, for a moment, content not doing a _thing_ but looking at Cedric. It’s something he’s been doing rather a lot of lately, he finds.

The thing is, something in him tugs at Harry’s chest in way that Elizabeth’s surprise request hadn’t; that no girl, nobody, if he is being entirely honest with himself, ever provoked in him.

He can’t say what, or why, or how. But perhaps, for the night, it doesn’t terribly matter.

Besides, they are going as _friends_ , after all.

Just friends.

Just champions.

Harry swallows.

He thinks of Ron, moaning about the Yule Ball for weeks. He wonders what he would say if Harry told him that the Hogwarts Champion, the proper one, had asked him, and Harry had said no.

 _Bloody idiot,_ he would say, Harry thinks. That, or _stupid git._ One of the two.

Probably both. 

“Okay,” he clears his throat. “I mean, yeah. Yeah. I like that idea. Friends.”

Feeling awfully stilted, Harry decides that the best way to regain some composure is to stick his hand out at Cedric to shake on it.

Cedric glimpses down at Harry’s outstretched hand with an unreadable expression.

Slowly, his face breaks into a breathtaking smile.

“Friends.”

With a low chuckle, he brushes aside Harry’s hand, pulling him firmly against him.

Over Cedric’s shoulder,  Harry sees Xavier punch his fist in the air.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, no actual Yule Ball yet- I'm sorry! I absolutely promise it'll happen next chapter. 
> 
> I'm really curious to hear your thoughts about this chapter, and as always, I appreciate every comment, so please don't hesitate to leave one, if you have the time! :)  
> See you next time, and thank you so much for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

 

When Ron said there was an ‘emergency’ that required his immediate assistance, this isn’t _precisely_ what Harry had in mind.

Not, he supposes, that he can’t see _why_ Ron thought it was a fitting characterisation of his predicament.

Harry tries to compose his expression into one of utter indifference, even admiration, as he meets Ron’s eyes and tells him that his dress-robes really _bring out his eyes_.

Ron, frozen before the mirror in the offending garment, muddy brown and adorned with more lace than Harry has ever seen in his life, isn’t convinced.

“Mum sent them,” he chokes, a pained look contorting his features. “Blimey, Harry. I look like a bloody house-elf on fancy-potato-sack-day.” Grabbing at the abundance of white frills at his collar, he inhales sharply. “And I _smell_ like my Great Aunt Tessie.”

He glares at Harry, in his own comparatively minimalist attire.  

“What are _those_? They’re alright.”

He flicks at Harry’s collar almost accusingly.

Truthfully, Harry had been feeling rather foolish in his own dark and white dress robes.

 _Twat,_ he had thought to himself as he pulled them on in the store and craned his neck to see how it billowed rather dramatically behind him; but, lacking the will to look further and the sense to choose better, he bought them anyway.

Looking at Ron, now, he can’t help but feel some semblance of comfort.

 “Well I expect yours are more traditional,” he says hastily.

“Traditional?” Ron’s voice very high. “Bloody _Godric Gryffindor_ wouldn’t be caught dead in these.”

“Don’t be daft.”

Harry tries to imagine the Founding Gryffindor in Ron’s outfit. He comes up rather blank.

“What am I gonna do, Harry? You’ve got to help me,” Ron says desperately. “I can’t go out there in _this_.”

“Sure you can,” Harry says firmly. “Look, they’re _fine_.” Then, at Ron’s rolling eyes, “maybe a _bit_ eccentric, but so what? You’ve been on about this Ball for weeks.”

All of a sudden, Ron has Harry’s robes bunched up in his fists, eyes wild.

“I asked bloody _Fleur Delacour_ out, Harry. If she sees me in these – not to mention _Lavender_.”

Harry winces.

Of course, for Ron, it felt better than nothing- better than _no one_. But when Charms finished early today to allow everybody to prepare for the Ball, and a rather half-hearted Lavender Brown had approached Ron to ask him to accompany her, Harry had rather hoped Ron would simply say no.

“Who cares what Lavender thinks?” Harry says. “Besides, she asked _you_. She must like you.”

That, or Professor Riddle, to nobody’s surprise but Lavender’s, _didn’t_ ask her, and in desperation, she made other arrangements.

Ron swallows, hard, and, releasing Harry’s robes, returns to his own reflection.

 “Fucking murder me, Harry. Just _murder_ me.”

Harry tries for a tentative smile.

“Excited for the Ball, then?” he says chirpily.

Ron makes a sound like a like an old, heavy door groaning shut.

* * *

 

Hermione is locked in the cubicle of the girl’s bathroom, hands shaking and parchment pressed against the closed door as she scrawls her apologies to Viktor Krum.

_Dear Krum –_

No,

_Dear Viktor,_

She starts over.

_I am ever so sorry, but as it happens, I have become quite ill this evening, and am afraid that I am unable to accompany you to the Ball after all._

She imagines him waiting for her, dressed in fine robes and waiting with his hands crossed politely behind his back.

She imagines him walking into the Ball alone. 

Her heart pangs unpleasantly at the thought - but he would be alright, of course. Half the girls in the castle have been _dying_ to catch him alone. He would find a suitable partner in next to no time.

Hermione blinks, reading over her letter twice before she scrunches it up, lobs it in the toilet, and, not for the first time this evening, curses the Yule Ball rather colourfully under her breath.

She is being silly, some voice inside her says. She’ll have fun when she’s _there_ , it insists.

But the _feeling_ that she gets when she sees herself - hair tamed and enchanted, glowing courtesy of a chorus of charms, eyes glinting with soft powder applied timidly over the sink, body _squeezed_ into the confines of the rather tight, rather stunning crimson dress that her mother had bought her on the occasion of her cousin’s wedding, and feet cramping in matching heeled shoes - is _louder_ than that voice.

Because she looks _different_. Looks _glamorous_ , scrubbed clean and adorned with fabrics and powders and jewels that sparkle.

She looks- well, it’s possible, she supposes, that she looks pretty.

But she feels uncomfortable; like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. Red lipstick smeared across her face and shoes far too big for her feet. She feels as though she will stumble down the staircase in these ambitious heels, falling flat on her face in front of all of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang and Hogwarts, and Viktor Krum will be embarrassed that he ever asked her. As though the minute he sees her, Malfoy will burst into laughter and mock her attempts at taming her appearance, at _playing_ the pretty girl- as though Harry and Ron will laugh, too.

“Hermione?”

Hermione starts, clears her throat.

“Oh – yes, I’m here,” she admits, peering through the crack in the cubicle door to see Parvati Patil, a picture of loveliness in a fiercely pink gown, orange sash fastened over her shoulder, at the sink.

“Oh, are you dressed? Let’s see, then!” the other girl says at once, “We should get a move on. Everybody’s heading down already – to the Durmstrang ship, that is. How exciting, don’t you think? A Ball on a boat!”

Hermione hesitates.

“Oh, actually,” she says hastily, “I’m feeling rather ill. I’m afraid I might not be coming at all.”

“Oh, no,” Parvati says, crestfallen. “Surely you could come down, if only for a little? If you have to leave a bit later, I’ll walk back with you, if you’d like.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, touched and guilty in equal measure. “Oh, that’s lovely, Parvati. But I really feel quite awful.” She coughs, hoping it’s at least mildly convincing.

“Alright,” Parvati says. She hesitates. “But if – and I know, it’s not my place, but if there’s some other reason you don’t want to go down-”

Hermione stiffens. Evidently, her cough hasn’t worked the wonders she had hoped it would.  

“I know how you feel,” Parvati finishes simply.

At that, Hermione swallows, peering through the crack in the door with a new interest, listening.

“It feels strange, dressing up. We all see each other every day here, but always in uniform. It’s _stressful_ , tonight. I changed my dress twice today, and even now, I’m not sure about this one. But I think it’s all part of it,” Parvati smiles, gently. “Besides, who cares what we look like, anyway? There’s food, and music. And Gryffindor.”

“I suppose so,” Hermione says slowly.

_Who cares what we look like, anyway?_

And since when has Hermione given a _damn_ what she looks like?

She certainly didn’t when she showed up to her last Transfiguration exam without brushing her hair – _only_ to get the highest marks McGonagall had ever awarded a student in her time at Hogwarts, mind you -  or enjoyed this year’s trip to Diagon Alley wearing one of Harry’s old shirts, having slept overnight in it.

Gritting her teeth, Hermione nods.

“Parvati,” she says, somewhat embarrassed. “I, um. I think I will come to the Ball, after all.”

“Feeling better?” Parvati says, voice teasing.

 Hermione flushes.

“Quite.”

Drawing in a deep breath, she unlocks the door and pushes it open.

Parvati turns to her, face already spread into a smile-

She freezes.

Hermione bites her lip, glancing over herself, suddenly anxious once more.

“What is it?” Hermione says. “Have I got something on my face?”

Parvati’s mouth is open, just a little.

“Bloody _hell_ , Hermione,” she says, exasperated.

She grins.

 “What on earth were you hiding in there for?”

* * *

 

Durmstang’s ship is coated in frost this evening.

From a distance, it looks to be positively _made_ of the stuff: a great sculpture of ice perched at the water’s edge. Light from inside dances on the surface of the ice and it is _glowing_ , and Hermione can just make out the beautiful melody of a string quartet inside, songs inviting her, _begging_ her, to dance; and the hum of excited chatter from the main entrance.

The air fogs up as Hermione exhales, though somehow, she does not feel cold, even without the comfort of her coat.

Something about the way everything _looks_ tonight, the way the world is _gleaming_ , soothes her anxious heart.

 Of course, she has Parvati to thank for that.  

Between the castle and the ship, Hermione has learned rather a lot about the other girl that she had never thought to ask before.

As it happens, Hermione isn’t the only one who contested the Sorting Hat’s assessment as to which House she belonged in.

Were it not for her adamant insistence that she should be placed in Gryffindor, just as her mother had been, in her time, Parvati would be in Hufflepuff yellow, away from her sister. Hermione wouldn’t know her at _all_ , probably.

The dress she has on tonight was her mother’s too – and Parvati was under strict instructions not to spill anything on it, or she’ll be well and truly for it.

That, and Parvati, too, will be greeted by a Durmstrang boy this evening.

“His name is Vanja,” she tells Hermione, cheeks pink as they step inside, the sudden warmth sending a shiver down Hermione’s spine. “Honestly, I didn’t think anybody would ask me – but he did. He seems quite nice, not that we’ve spoken very much.”

“I didn’t think anybody would ask me, either,” Hermione admits. “I was rather looking forward to going with my friends, actually.”

Parvati casts a curious glance at her.

“Who changed your mind?”

Before Hermione can answer, they have stepped out onto the platform overlooking a grand staircase, at the base of which the population of Hogwarts is gathered and immersed in conversation with one another - that is, until they spot Hermione and Parvati.

Hermione hesitates, heart stuttering at the prospect of all those eyes suddenly on her.

She sees herself losing balance, toppling down –

“What are they looking at?” Hermione whispers, agitated.

Parvati rolls her eyes.

“Oh, come off it, Hermione. They’re looking at _you_.”

“But _why_?”

“Merlin, Hermione – because you look wonderful, of course!” Parvati says, as though it is obvious.

Heat rushing to her cheeks, Hermione lifts her skirts, concentrating on her each and every step until she is confident enough that she won’t lose her balance to look up.

One thing is for certain: she doesn’t feel over-dressed in the slightest.

The Beauxbatons girls pooled at the foot of the stars are dazzling in gowns of silver and blue. She spots Ginny and Neville, each dressed colourfully and looking at her, the strangest smiles on their faces, and Malfoy, hair slicked back and staring at her with an expression uncharacteristically devoid of hatred.

But she isn’t going to think about _Malfoy_ tonight.

Making towards the foot of the stairs towards her, Viktor Krum is dressed in bold red, a sash of fur draped over his shoulder – something that, she notes, the Durmstrang boys all seem to have in common, though, in her admittedly biased opinion, nobody wears it quite as well as Viktor.

Something in her chest feels suddenly warm.

Parvati casts Hermione a look of surprise, wonder, even as Krum inclines his head, reaching for her hand and drawing it to her lips, just as he had done in the library, not so long ago, eyes bearing intently into her own. Even as he calls her beautiful, sending a tremor through her body, a warmth-

Before Hermione can say a word in response, there is a shout from behind her – familiar, and terribly enthusiastic.

“What the bloody _fucking_ hell.”

Ron, dressed in what Hermione can only describe as a medieval sort of frock, has arrived, and, at the sight of Hermione with Viktor Krum, promptly stopped at the foot of the staircase, dumbfounded.

A few stairs behind him, Hermione is startled to note, Lavender Brown is in bedazzled green and scowling at Ron, flouncing past him towards Parvati.

“Do you know him?” Krum asks, brow furrowed as he beholds Ron, mouth ajar and wide eyes leaping from him to Hermione.

He really thought nobody had asked her at all, she realises, though she is too content at this minute to be particularly offended by it.

“Not at all,” Hermione says seriously, but she cannot help but smile. “Come on then,” she sighs. “Ronald, come here, would you?”

She beckons him closer with her little finger. Ron turns pink, but Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever seen him move faster in her life than he does in his hurry to reach them.

“Alright, mate,” he says, his relaxed tone somewhat at odds with his ragged breath and popping eyes.

 “Viktor, this is my friend, Ron. Ron, this is Viktor,” Hermione says, at Krum’s rather alarmed expression.  

“Uh, hello,” Ron croaks.

If Hermione believed in a God, she thinks, and if she ever met Him, she might understand the way that Ron is looking at Krum right now. Like he is honoured and afraid and deliriously happy all at once. Or perhaps if she ever falls in love. Perhaps then, she will understand.

“I’m Weasley- uh, Ron. _Ron_ Weasley. Weasley’s my last name – be a _stupid_ first name, wouldn’t it? _Weasley_. ‘ _Hi, I’m Weasley’,_ god, _what_ a tosser! Anyway, Hermione told you that. I’m Hermione’s friend- she told you that, too.” He actually _giggles_ , then. “I just thought I should tell you _again_ , y’know, better to be safe than sorry, hey?”

Krum shoots Hermione a frantic look.

“Ron’s a big Quidditch fan,” she mutters apologetically, by way of justification.

At that, comprehension flashes across Krum’s face.

“Ah, Quidditch!” he says, with a hearty smile. “Yes. It is the best sport in the world.”

“Best sport in the _universe_ ,” Ron says, enthralled. “You were brilliant this World Cup, knew you would get the snitch, you always get the fucking snitch-”

“Mr Krum.”

It is McGonagall, cutting Ron off, prodding the fur on Krum’s shoulder to capture his attention.

Contrary to the picture she had painted of the Yule Ball, McGonagall’s hair remains firmly in its bun – although she _is_ wearing a rather fetching dress of silk and green, a black scarf draped over her shoulders. That, and Hermione thinks her cheeks have a little more colour to them than normal.

Hermione smiles.

“Professor,” Krum inclines his head.

“The Champion’s Waltz is about to commence,” McGonagall says, casting a finger towards the great doors that lead into the ballroom, the real Yule Ball. “If you’ll join the others with-” McGonagall’s eyes widen as they find Hermione. “With Miss Granger,” she finishes, a most peculiar look on her face. Almost as though she is proud.

“Yes Professor,” she says at once. “We’ll meet you inside, alright, Ron?”

“Alright.” Ron looks rather dazed.

“My I ‘ave your arm, ‘Ermiown-ninny?” Viktor, ever the gentleman, asks, offering her the nook of his elbow with a flourish of his arm.

Hermione’s cheeks feel rather hot.

“You certainly may.”

* * *

 

Not for the first time this evening, Hermione makes a mental note to thank Parvati for, knowingly or not, coaxing her out of the bathroom stall and into the ballroom that is quickly becoming home to some of Hermione’s very _fondest_ experiences.

There is something about this great room of grand ice sculptures, of glittering chandeliers and fairies, _real_ fairies, dancing in clusters into the ceiling, the faint hum of their voices complimenting the gentle strings –

And later, the less gentle, but admittedly more fun, _Weird Sisters,_ with their dragon-hide drums and remarkably catchy lyrics – something about _rock and roll trolls._

Something about the plates upon plates of food that is as much a feast for her eyes as it is for her stomach.

Something, of course, about the open and concerningly unpoliced supply of fire whisky that, against her better judgment, is warming and wonderful at letting her _relax_ , laugh, love _everyone,_ absolutely everyone in this room-

Something about the way everybody is smiling, _laughing_ – Professor McGonagall dancing circles across the room with Professor Flitwick flying by his ankles, and Hagrid plucking up the courage to take Madam Maxime’s hand and lead her to the heart of the dancefloor, the way he is _blushing_ like a young man, too afraid to tell a girl he fancies her.

Something about Viktor Krum – the way his hand is _gentle_ at her waist as they manoeuvre their way through the jovial crowds – the way he leans in close to hear her speak. The way he points to her red dress, and then to his own fierce scarlet attire, and tells her that it suits _them_ well.

About Harry, who had turned, shocked to see her at the Champion’s waltz, Cedric- _Cedric Diggory -_ looking dashing at his arm, who had told her she looks _brilliant_ and meant it.

About Ron, _bless_ Ron - who won’t stop telling her how furious he is that she didn’t tell him she was coming with _Viktor Krum_ ; won’t stop asking her whether Viktor would think it was weird if he came along next time they hung out – cowering behind Harry and Cedric in a bid to hide from Lavender, whose stormy mood appears to worsen as the night goes on, eyes scanning the crowd like a hunting hawke.

Of course, Hermione isn’t convinced that it’s _Ron_ she’s looking for. She thinks of the chocolates, discarded in Riddle’s classroom bin.

“ _Love potion_? Why didn’t anyone warn me? Bloody hell, she’s _mad_ ,” Ron exclaims when she whisper-shouts the news to him on the dance-floor when Viktor nobly volunteers to fetch them more firewhisky, even as he spins her clumsily under his arm, sending her crashing into Cedric and Harry, who appear to be having a marvellous time quite deliberately stepping on each other’s feet as they circle the floor.

“Mad as a bad, bad, Hatter- oh, oh, I’m so sorry, Cedric!”

The boy grins, steadying her with the palm of his hand, though he too is a little shaky.

“No harm done, ‘Mione.”

“ _I_ don’t get an apology, but Cedric does?” Harry says, indignant as he is sloshed. “If you two start liking him better I’m _leaving this band_.”   

“Oh, we don’t give a _toss_ , mate,” Ron yells over the music. “Cedric- hey Ced- _ric_! You any good on the drums? Looks like we’re recruiting.”  

Cedric laughs at that, even as Harry pretends to be offended in earnest.

“Hermione, where’s Viktor with that firewhisky?” Ron says sluggishly. “I want to talk to him about-”

“Ronald Weasley, if you say _Quidditch_ again,” Hermione raises a finger in warning, and Harry splutters with laughter.

Yet, at the mention of Viktor, she realises she quite misses him.

That, and she rather _likes_ firewhisky. The way she can feel it in her veins like steady flames warming her whole body, her _mind_ , numbing her to every silly worry and rule she can think of, is always thinking of so there is nothing left but this – the music, and the people dancing to it.

“I’ll be _right_ back,” she murmurs.

With a gentle nudge from Harry, she pushes through the crowd until she has reached the very outskirts of the dancefloor, and she spins, squinting as she searches for the Bulgarian boy responsible for the light feeling in her chest –

She spots somebody else instead.

It isn’t an entirely unpleasant find.

Professor Riddle, smartly dressed in dress-robes with a dark hue that matches his eyes and makes his cheekbones look awfully sharp, a half-glass of firewhisky enclosed in his hand as he stands alone, surveying the scene around him, just to her side.

He’s got to be the only person in this room not smiling stupidly, and certainly the only one by himself.

“Professor,” she blurts out, delighted for some reason that she suspects relates to the sweet, burning taste lingering on her tongue, and, before she can assess whether it’s a terribly good idea to engage a teacher in conversation while quite possibly, definitely intoxicated, he meets her eyes.

* * *

 

“ _Granger_.”

He says it rather hoarsely, her name, eyes flitting from her head to toe with a peculiar gleam to them.

 He swallows.  

“You’re late,” she says, accusing – it’s all she can t _hink_ to say, Merlin knows why.

After all, for the better part of the evening, Lavender has searched for him in vain – which of course, _she_ ought to have been expecting in any case, but Hermione – he had told _her_ he would attend, yet at the Champion’s Waltz, he was nowhere to be seen.

At that, his lip twitches, the promise of a smile.

“I didn’t realise we had an appointment,” he muses. “Why, Granger, have you been _looking_ for me?”

“I wasn’t _looking_ for you,” Hermione says defensively, “I simply noticed your absence.”

“Naturally.”

“There’s a difference!” she insists.

Riddle looks as though he is trying very much not to laugh.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says seriously.

Hermione is about to retort when she’s distracted by something; something _glittering_ and silver, fastened to his chest. A brooch comprised of what appears to be two serpents, tangled together in a rather elegant manner.

That, or two worms.

Hermione really can’t be sure.

“That’s nice, isn’t it?” she says plainly.

“Sorry, what’s _nice_ , Granger?” Riddle leans in, amusement _live_ in his eyes.

By way of response, Hermione reaches out, traces the cool silver of the serpents with the tips of her fingers.

He inhales sharply – the breeze from outside, she expects.

“It’s quite pretty,” she tells him, “This.” She grimaces. “Quite _cold_ , though.” With a shiver, Hermione relieves her fingers of the cool surface of the brooch, opting instead to let them fall lower, to press them gently into the firm warmth of his chest –

His chest.

 _Professor_ Riddle’s.

Hermione drops her hand faster than her mind can scream _inappropriate,_ cheeks flaming.

She does not know if it makes it better or worse that he chuckles, low in his throat, at that.

“Why, Granger,” he murmurs, “are you _inebriated_?”

“Whatever gives you that idea?” she says spiritedly.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” he says, mischief glinting in his eyes.

Hermione gulps, head too dizzy, tongue too tied, for _this_.

 _He_ is too breathtaking, of course, though that’s nothing particularly _new_.

“How has your evening been?” she asks, determined to sustain some normalcy in conversation.

“Dull,” he says shortly. His eyes trail over her face, then, some edge to his gaze that makes her wish she was sober enough to read it. “Until rather recently, it could be said.”

“What happened recently?” she asks, rather stupidly.

The whole ‘Yule Ball’ thing probably answers that question quite nicely.

She wonders if Professor Riddle will dance tonight.

She wonders whether she should invite him to dance with she and the rest of them.

She decides against it.

Riddle only shakes his head, exasperated and entertained all at once.

Before Hermione can so much as blink, he is closer, _too_ close, just close _enough_ , and she feels _so_ on edge, so very aware of how his knee is nearly brushing hers, his scent – parchment, earth, sugar – overwhelming, _enticing_ , as he lowers his lips to her ear.

“I should tell you that you look exquisite. It would be poor manners not to.”

_Exquisite._

He said she looks exquisite, and Hagrid had said much the same, and Professor Sprout, but the way _he_ says it _does_ something to her, inside her, deep in her belly-

_Exquisite._

Only so as to be _polite_ , of course.

Hermione’s brow furrows, and she pulls back to look at him.

His eyes are very dark when they meet hers, jaw soft, somehow.

“Since when do you care about poor manners?”

It is bold, she knows, and crossing a line, perhaps, but then so is _he_ , and besides, she’s a tad too effected by the Firewhisky to care very much. She tags a ‘Sir’ on the end for good measure.

Riddle smirks, and his mouth is half open to retort when Hermione feels a strong arm fall around her waist.

“’Ermiown-ninny,” Krum says, and with a somewhat guilty start, Hermione remembers why she ventured from the dancefloor in the first place.

Sure enough, his free arm is precariously balancing a great deal of firewhisky, held there, she notes, with magic- though how he’s in any condition to cast at the moment, Hermione has no idea.

 “I ‘ave been looking for you.” There’s an edge to his voice.

“Viktor! Oh, I was looking for _you_ ,” she says.

At Krum’s pointed glance towards Riddle, she elaborates, hasty.

“And then I ran into Professor Riddle- my Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher, you see.”

_My Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher._

It is as much of an introduction to Krum as it is a reminder to her inebriated self.

At that, Krum seems to brighten, if only a little. He slips his arm free of Hermione’s waist, holding it out.

“ _Ah_! Of course. It eez an honour to meet the person who eez teaching ‘Ermiown-ninny so well.”

Hermione glances at Professor Riddle, suddenly, inexplicably nervous for how he will respond.

He’s not said a word since Viktor interrupted their conversation, and his expression is utterly blank, though he certainly doesn’t look _half_ as warm as he did a moment ago.

To her immense relief, though, he meets Viktor’s hand with his own, giving it what appears to be a rather rigorous shake.

“The pleasure is mine,” he says coolly, “teaching a student as naturally _bright_ as _Hermione_.”

He says her name slowly, pronouncing carefully – mocking Viktor, she knows, and she _is_ angry for it – but he never says her name, not really, and it sounds _so_ -

Merlin.

Did she hear him call her _naturally bright_?

 She shoots him a puzzled look, but he is not paying her any mind anymore. His attention is fixed on Viktor.

“You must be so accomplished yourself, Sir,” Krum is saying, ever courteous, though his eyes are _narrowed_ , and Hermione can’t say why. “You seem so young.”

“So I’m told.” Riddle’s smile is all charm.

Krum matches it, tightly.

“And eez there a Mrs Riddle with you tonight?” Krum peers over Riddle’s shoulder, as though expecting his female counter-part to materialise there at once.

Hermione surveys him – she hasn’t thought about whether he has a partner. She has rather assumed he doesn’t.

Riddle laughs, his polite, _feigning_ laugh.

“I find there’s little utility to be found in _relationships_ ,” he sneers. “You’d understand – you’re an ambitious Seeker, after all, are you not? I don’t believe distractions are encouraged in the national team?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I do not know what your ‘ _utility_ ’ is,” Krum says, frowning, “but I think you are wrong, Professor.”

“Of course,” Riddle says, and his beam is so _disingenuous_ it makes Hermione flinch. “In any event, I believe I must speak with Professor McGonagall. Do _enjoy_ your evening.”

With that, he is gone, making a beeline through the crowd and away from the pair of them before Hermione can wish him the same.

It is abrupt, and it is strange, ever-so – and the moment Viktor’s next round of drinks touches Hermione’s lips, she is beyond giving it any further thought.

She is beyond anything and everything but spinning, hands enveloped in her Bulgarian boy’s.

* * *

 

The last song has played itself out and people are beginning to scatter when Harry sees Professor Riddle standing by the window.

His mouth, still tinged with firewhisky, spreads into a wide grin, and he tugs Ron’s arm, pulling him along.

“Professor! Hey, Professor Riddle!”

Despite the occasion, Professor Riddle looks rather irritable when he turns around.

“Potter,” he says thinly. “Had a good evening, I hope.”

“Thanks, Sir. Yeah, I have,” he says enthusiastically. “Listen, Sir, I just wanted to say thanks. Y’know. For _not_ helping me.”

He tries his hand at winking.

He isn’t sure it goes too well.

“I’m really not sure what it is you think you’re thanking me for, Potter, but I’m sure there’s no need,” Riddle says coolly, though his face looks softer, somehow, Harry likes to think.

 He raises his glass to Harry, a single eyebrow inflected upward.

“Yeah, thanks,” Ron cuts in, though it’s really more of a drunken drawl. “You’re a good Sir, Sir. Hope Lavender didn’t find you, mate.”

“Lavender Brown?” Riddle says, expression unreadable.

“She asked _me_ to the Ball, y’know,” Ron bursts, gesturing towards himself in disbelief. “Been hiding from her all night. Though, between you and me, I reckon she _really_ wanted to go with _you_ , Professor,” he says confidentially, tapping the side of his nose a little too hard to be at all subtle. “Weird. You’re a _teacher,_ it’s so w _eird,_ don’t you think, Harry? But I _can_ see why. You’re a good-looking bloke, Sir, all due-” Ron hiccups, “-respect.”

Harry isn’t sure whether Professor Riddle is going to laugh or be cross – with Ron, he seems to lean towards the latter mostly – but before he has the chance to say anything at all –

“ _Won Won.”_

Speak of the devil, and she shall appear in a bedazzled dress and a scowl.

“I’ve been looking _all_ over for you, are you not even going to _ask_ to escort me back to the – oh,” she spots Riddle, and suddenly, Ron is invisible. Her cheeks turn pink, and she curls her hair behind her ear, suddenly breathless.

 “ _Oh_. Professor Riddle. I thought you weren’t coming.”

Merlin, the way Riddle is looking at her now –

If Harry didn’t know what she’d done, he’d feel right awful for her.

But he knows, so he doesn’t.

“Ah, Miss Brown,” Riddle’s smile is razor thin. “Yes, I had something of a change of plans. I had to see you, you understand.”

Lavender’s eyes widen at that, and Harry eyes Riddle, curious.

Curious, because he thinks he knows what he is about to do.

Curious, because this is Professor Riddle, and he’s not known for _holding back._

Ron looks like he wishes he had popcorn.

“You- you did?”

Hopeful.

She is hopeful.

“Indeed,” Professor Riddle says, voice smooth.

 In an instant, he has moved, and he is standing nearly flush against her, and the breath that Lavender draws in is a _udible._

“I hoped to tell you something.”

“Of course, Sir,” Lavender says- softly, eagerly. “Tell me.”

He leans in, and it is only then that the smile _drops,_ and there is an  _edge_ to his voice, something terribly  _cold._

“ _Try to_ poison _me again, and I give you my_ word _, getting your wand snapped in two as you’re expelled will be the very_ least _of your concerns_.”

He draws back, and Harry can _see_ the anger on his face, the f _ury, pride._

He can see the man who sent a bird dancing across the classroom before killing it on Harry's desk in a flash of green.

He swallows, some strange feeling he can't name taking him; though probably, it is the nausea, on account of his bright idea to eat a whole lot of cauldron cakes immediately before skulling another round of firewhiskies with Ron.

“Oh,” Riddle adds, not bothering to hide his disdain, even as Lavender reels, white as a sheet, “and stop harassing Weasley. It’s rather pathetic.”

Petrified, head down, Lavender only nods.

“Sir,” she says. It is barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to – I didn’t think it was _poisoning_ you, it was only supposed to be fun, I would _never-”_

“You would,” Riddle interjects, though he’s not even bothered to _look_ at her now, opting instead to examine his nails. “You did. And I’m sure I don’t care for any other justification you see fit to entertain, Miss Brown, so I _really_ wouldn’t advise trying.”

When she turns around, she is crying.

Properly crying, though it is silent, cheeks stained wet and eyes red around the edges.

And Harry _knows_ what she did.

Knows how it’s utterly nuts, and horrible, and illegal, he thinks Hermione said.

Still, _still,_ he feels some pang of sympathy for her.

Still, he feels as though she didn’t quite deserve this.

“That was-” he starts, uneasy, but Ron finishes,

“Brilliant!”

The other boy is positively chortling, and he grins as he looks at Riddle.

“Thanks, Sir. I owe you one. Fuck, I hope I’m as terrifying as you one day.”

“ _Language_ , Weasley,” Riddle says curtly, but he inclines his head- accepting the thanks.

“Sorry, Sir,” Ron waves his hands. “I think I’m a bit – y’know.” He mimes pouring a drink into his mouth with his left hand.

“I never would have guessed,” Riddle says sardonically.

“Sorry ‘bout Ron, Professor,” Harry says hastily, “we don’t mean to interrupt you doing- uh, whatever you were doing. C’mon, Ron. I’ll get Cedric, you find Hermione, and we can head back to the castle.”

He grabs Ron by the shoulders, hauling the pair of them away from Professor Riddle.

“I dunno, mate. Think she’s still with _Viktor_.” Ron’s voice is heavily suggestive.  

“And?” Harry frowns, not following.

“Oh, Harry,” Ron sighs. “You are so _naïve_ in your youth.”

“We’re the same age!”

“All I’m saying is, I’m not sticking around waiting for two drunk _couples_ to say bye.”

“We’re not _couples_ ,” Harry says at once, cheeks coloured. “Cedric and me, I told you, we came as friends-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron rolls his eyes. “Spare me, Harry. He couldn’t take his bloody eyes off you all night. Be creepy if it wasn’t actually kinda nice. I ‘spose.” He sniffs. “Meet you at the castle? My head’s starting to hurt.”

“Alright,” Harry says. “You go ahead. Cedric and me- we’ll find Hermione.”

“Right,” Ron says breezily. “But careful. Who knows – she and Krum could be hugging- or _worse._ ”

Harry only laughs.

“Honestly, Ron. Have you _met_ Hermione? They’re not ‘ _hugging or worse’_.”

* * *

 

It is –

Something.

Not perfect.

 Hermione sets rather a high bar for herself when it comes to _perfect,_ and while everything about this has her heart s _tuttering,_ her nerves singing, her stomach riddled with butterflies, she has no delusions about what this is. About _where_ she is – spine pressed just a little _too_ hard for comfort against the freezing stone wall beside the steps leading up and out of the ship, drunk Hogwarts and Beauxbatons students staggering their way up and casting their eyes towards them as they did, all the lights on and the music off, but for the persistent ringing in her own ears, and the beginning of a promising headache pounding at her temple as the magic of the firewhisky wears out its welcome.

It is hardly the picture of romance.

 It is hardly _love,_ nothing like it, at least, not _now._

But it is wonderful, all the same.

 _Exhilarating_ , all the same.

Kissing Viktor Krum, that is.

She doesn’t think she’ll forget it – the moment he dipped his head towards hers. The way it seemed to stretch out and disappear into nothing all at once. The look in his eyes, the _want_ in them, the realisation that it was for _her,_ that he was asking her _permission,_ and of course, _of course_ , she gave it – not that she was planning on it, per se. Not that she even thought about it, really, going into tonight. She never _thought_ about it. It simply happened, and she thinks, perhaps, that it is her favourite thing about it.

That, and the way his lips were _tentative_ when they met hers for the first time – the _very_ first time, and how she had nearly gasped at the sensation, how very _real_ it felt, how _close_ and warm, how she _felt_ that his lips were chapped from the cold, _tasted_ the toffee apple he had stolen from the staff table earlier in the night fresh on his tongue.

How the kiss _changed,_ lips _crashing_ into lips, now –

“Merlin,” she whispers, wanting for air. “Merlin, I- Viktor,” she laughs, soft, placing two fingers on his lips as he leans back into her. “I have to _go._ I have to find Harry and Ron.”

“Let me escort you back,” Viktor says unevenly, cupping her chin in the palm of his hand. She relaxes into it, allows herself to close her eyes. “I don’t want to say good-night to you yet, ‘Ermiown-ninny.”

Hermione’s lip twitches.  

Try as she might to teach him, it seems her name is simply not one that falls easily from Viktor’s mouth.

“Don’t be silly.” Unthinking, she places a hand over his. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my way back.”

“Of course,” Viktor says reasonably, “But what kind of a partner would I be if I did not insist on escorting you myself?”

“ _Krum,”_ somebody barks, and when Hermione, flushing f _uriously,_ drops her hand from Viktor’s and whips around, she sees that it is Headmaster Karkaroff, the perfect scowl contorting his features as he beholds the pair of them.

“The hour is _late,”_ Karkaroff says pointedly, “and _you_ have a Tournament to prepare for. Or perhaps you have forgotten?”

It’s a warning – or maybe even a threat.

Whatever it is, it makes Hermione uneasy.

Viktor turns red.

“I have not forgotten, Headmaster,” he says at once.

Karkaroff’s smile is thin, which Hermione supposes is for the best. The look of his front teeth, yellow and greying as they are, rather frightens her.

“ _Good,”_ he says. “Well, then, I’m sure your lovely _friend_ here will understand that I absolutely cannot allow you to wonder over to the castle at this late hour.”

He barely affords Hermione the dignity of a glance, though she is almost glad for it. She’s fairly certain there’s no significant difference in colour between her dress and her skin at this point in the evening.

“Of course,” she croaks.

Krum shoots Hermione a look, an apologetic one, and he opens his mouth, turns to her, but –

“ _Tonight,_ Krum.”

Karkaroff, evidently, is not in a charitable mood.

Krum’s eyes flash with anger, now, anger at _him,_ but he only swallows, nods.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he tells her, a promise. “I will find you.”

Drawing both her hands towards him, he presses a final kiss into her knuckles.

“Tomorrow,” she affirms, and even with Karkaroff glaring at them, she cannot help but smile, if a little, at the wonderfully _happy_ look she gets in return.

Karkaroff places a hand on Viktor’s shoulder as he passes him, spreading his fingers wide across the breadth of it and digging in, rather deliberately, too, almost as though he is marking his _territory._

He shoots a dark look at Hermione as Viktor, obedient, walks away from her, and for a moment, she thinks he means to say something to her- though what on earth the Headmaster of Durmstrang would have to say to _her_ she hasn’t the faintest clue.

However, with a glance to his left, at the handful of people still making their way out to the stairs, Karkaroff’s mouth merely opens and closes, empty, and he inclines his head stiffly before following after his model student.

Hermione waits for him to be gone in earnest before she sighs, lids, suddenly unbearably heavy, falling shut over her eyes as she combs her fingers through her hair – now nearly returned to its former state of chaos.

She thinks she may have bruised her back, pressed into the wall as she is.

What in _Merlin’s_ name has become of her tonight?

“Potter is looking for you.”

Hermione’s eyes snap open and she straightens abruptly, his voice cutting through the exhaustion that has taken hold of her.

“Professor?”

* * *

 

How Riddle manages to look just as composed, as _perfect_ , as he had when she first spotted him so many hours ago this evening is beyond Hermione, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t whole-heartedly resent him for it.

Not, she notes, that he looks precisely the same.

His face is different; his eyes.

Though he does not look _tired,_ it is not that.

He is- frustrated. Angry, even.

She wonders if Lavender found him.

“Is everything alright, Professor?” she clears her throat, hoping she doesn’t sound half as dazed as she feels.

“Excellent,” he says crisply. “Except, of course, for the fact that Potter is looking for you.”

“I see.” Hoping to retain some semblance of respectability, she smooths her skirts. “Well, um. Thank you. For telling me.”

“Of course,” he says again, and his smile is so _plastic_ she can’t stand to look at it.

“Sir,” she hesitates. “Am I- Have I done something- _wrong_?”

His nostrils seem to flare a little when he exhales, sharp, and the grin that follows is decidedly unkind.

“And here I thought you were so _clever_ ,” he says.

Hermione blinks.

She does not know quite what she was expecting, but it most certainly was not _that_.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Professor,” she says, puzzled, and too tired to be terribly motivated to work it out for herself.

He shrugs rather coldly, and she wonders whether she imagined the Professor Riddle she had encountered earlier in the night – the one with the curious light in his eyes, the _smile_ – the one that had called her _exquisite_ and sent her stomach squirming -  

“I’m sure you don’t. But I don’t much care to tell you, Granger. So, _Potter_.”

She swallows.

“I’ll find him.”

“ _Wonderful_ ,” Riddle’s smile is very tight. “So _good_ of him, isn’t it, or rather, _foolish_ , to trust you so _completely_ , even now that you are apparently fraternising with his enemy.”

At that, Hermione’s mouth falls _open_.

“His _enemy_?”

“Naturally,” Riddle says smoothly. “There is a rather dangerous competition on foot, Granger, or have you forgotten?”

The _look_ on his face when Krum had found her, earlier, when they were speaking. The way he had appraised him – this is what it meant.

It was about the _Tournament_.

Hermione is bewildered.

“That’s _ridiculous_ , Sir,” she says heatedly. “Of course I’ve not forgotten _._ Besides, the whole _purpose_ of the Triwizard Tournament in the first place is,” she sniffs, “international magical cooperation. To make _friends_.”

Riddle snorts.

“ _Friends_ ,” he muses, studying her intently. “Quite. Have you told Viktor Krum that?”

Hermione’s cheeks feel very hot, even as she meets his eyes, wonders _why_ he is looking at her like that, jaw clenched like that.

“What does that have to do with- with _anything_?” she says, defensive.  

Riddle sighs, impatient.

In an instant, he has closed the gap between them, one hand braced on the wall behind her as he leans closer, enough to _touch_ , and she is not half as drunk as she was before, so she hasn’t half the excuse for how much she wouldn’t _hate_ it if he was _closer, still_ -

“Everything,” he murmurs, voice very low, “Merlin, Granger. _Think_. Krum’s not an idiot, and nor is Karkaroff. They _know_ Potter’s useless in this game without you. You’re the _brain._ What better way to take out the competition than to take Potter’s very _brain_?”

“ _What_?”

Hermione wants to laugh – except -

Well.

Except that it would make sense.

Except that it isn’t ludicrous.

Krum is awfully competitive, after all.

And why else would he ask her? _Her_ , out of all the girls practically begging him to give them a night at the Yule Ball with the famous Viktor Krum?

Something inside her is sinking, and quickly, like a pebble on water, like a balloon falling down from the ceiling.

_And yet._

And yet, he had called her beautiful. He had met her friends and danced with them all night, danced with _her_ all night. He had just given her her first kiss, and she can still feel the ghost of it, warm on her lips.

“That’s absurd,” she mutters, with more conviction than she feels.

 She doesn’t look at him- at least, not in the eyes. She fixes her gaze instead on the white shirt, taut across his chest as it rises and falls with his breath.

“Viktor didn’t ask me _anything_ about the Tournament. He wouldn’t. Besides, I would never help him, anyway, he must know that. _Harry_ knows that,” she says, earnest.  

Riddle’s lip twitches.

“Well of course he didn’t ask you anything _yet_. Honestly, Granger, you haven’t the faintest idea how manipulation works, have you?”

Hermione feels a flare of anger, then.

“I am _not_ being manipulated,” she says, indignant.

Professor Riddle laughs without much humour.

“I’m sure,” he says, voice dripping with condescension.

“No, you’re not,” she says, “but, forgive me, Professor, I’m not sure why. I’m not an _idiot_.”

“Debatable,” he says shortly.

It is remarkable, truly, the hurt that _one_ word inflicts so instantaneously and sharply and _deeply_ in her chest.

 Hermione can’t _not_ look at him now; can’t _not_ meet his eyes, dark and beautiful and utterly, infuriatingly _unreadable_ , with a _fierce_ glare of her own, and she is opening her mouth to retort, to say how _dare_ he –

God, to think she thought that he _liked_ her; _respected_ her.

To think she thought she had _earned_ it.

As if she could e _ver_ earn it with him.

And yet-

_Exquisite._

For _him_ to say-

To say-

_So much for ‘poor manners’._

Her eyes are stinging.

“Hermione!”

She wants to cry.

It is Harry and Cedric, and she thinks she has quite possibly never been happier to see either of them than in this moment.

* * *

 

They are standing by the stairs, hands rather close, though not _quite_ touching, and Harry’s arm is raised and waving at her, a grin plastered across his face.

Hermione swallows past a lump in her throat, eyes seeking Professor Riddle’s.

He blinks, as though dazed, and she knows, she _knows_ , that it is more than likely the product of wishful thinking, but she could swear he looks apologetic.

He drops his arm from the wall behind her.

“You coming back to the castle with us, Professor?” Harry asks, grin faltering as he takes in Hermione’s face – and Riddle’s.

“No,” Riddle clears his throat. “No, I’m afraid Madam Maxime requires a word. Run along, Potter, Diggory.”

His robes swirl behind him as he turns on the spot and heads back into the ballroom without so much as a word spared for Hermione.

“You alright?” Cedric says once he is gone, eyes more alight, more alert, than Harry’s.

Hermione tries to smile.

She really tries to.

She shakes her head.

“What was that about?” Harry asks, a hard edge to his voice.

She bites her lip, agitated.

“Riddle thinks I’m an idiot.”

To her immense surprise, Harry laughs at that.

“And I thought he _wasn’t_ drunk,” he muses.

 _He wasn’t,_ she thinks, but she leaves it alone, not particularly eager to advertise Professor Riddle’s theories about Viktor – especially, well.

 Especially if Harry thinks he’s right, too.

“Come on,” Cedric says, looping one arm around Hermione’s back, and the other around Harry’s, propelling them forward, “We’ll be the last one’s left if we don’t get out of here – aside from Neville, that is, and I don’t know if he’ll ever leave.”  

Cedric, as it happens, is almost right about that.

While Hermione, exhausted, furious, and admittedly, terribly upset, falls asleep on the top stair to the girl’s dormitories, Neville dances on, spinning and humming until even the House Elves sent to clean up are gone, and his shoes are in need of a good shine.

It is only at six the next morning that Hagrid comes to bring him home.

It is around this time that Hermione wakes, and, in the haze of memories of the Ball, the giddy feeling in her chest as she spun with Viktor, with Harry, with Ron, the way her stomach _squirms_ at the thought of Professor Riddle, of the things that he said, she realises something rather odd.

Because everybody, in the end, had made an appearance at the Yule Ball, even Professor Riddle.

Everybody, that is, but Professor Dumbledore.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> First, I want to apologise for the delayed update- there are really two reasons for it. First, life has been rudely demanding this past week, and second, I've been absolutely agonising over what to include in this chapter, and particularly how to navigate the scenes with Professor Riddle in a way that isn't wildly inappropriate, but also isn't devoid of any drama aha, especially because I know that some of you have been looking forward to the Yule Ball. I can only hope that your hopes have been somewhat met here!
> 
> For anyone who wanted to see more of Cedric and Harry at the Ball, there will be a bit of that in the next chapter in flashbacks!  
> Also, the whole 'drinking at a school event' thing was something I flipped on a lot, and I mostly went for it purely for the fun of it, but I figured it might not be too unrealistic if it's mostly for older students - assuming wizards have some magic for curing hangovers, too, so it wouldn't be as risky as it might be with Muggles? But for the most part, I completely accept that it's a bit nuts, and I hope it didn't throw you guys off too much!
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you who've come aboard since the last chapter - and again, thank you so much to everyone who has left a comment. They really make Renatus feel like a fun group project!  
> Please do let me know what you think of this chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

It has been a week since the Yule Ball, and Hermione is cross with Professor Riddle.

Which is just as well, she supposes, considering he’s hardly endeared to _her_ at the minute.

This is all much to Ron’s dismay.

“Seriously? I finally – _finally_ \- get on board the Professor Riddle bandwagon, and _now_ you’ve decided we don’t like him?” Ron had  _groaned_ after a rather frosty first lesson, the morning following the Ball.

An indignant, and admittedly hungover, Hermione had opted to boycott answering Riddle’s questions altogether – a position she’s maintained ever since. If he can’t decide whether she’s clever or an idiot, she figured she might as well let him contend with _Malfoy’s_ shoddy answers instead.

She is _done_ trying to prove herself to him.

It bothered him, she could tell, when his request for a definition of Legilimency was met only with blank looks and silence. Could tell by the clench of his jaw, the forced, sharp smile. The expectant glance in _her_ direction.

“ _Miss Granger_? Legilimency- can you tell me what it is?” he had finally said, the third time he’d asked to no avail, and he didn’t say please, he _never_ said please, but she she had heard it all the same.

“I’m sure I don’t _know_ , Professor,” she had said, _innocent_ as she could manage, because what would _she,_ the  _idiot,_ know, and the _look_ on his face-

The way his _mouth_ pressed into a thin line, his nostrils flared, cheeks heated-

God.

It is curious.

Because it had _killed_ Hermione, that lesson he’d ignored her. The one where she knew _all_ the answers, stretched her hand into the sky, practically waved it frantically at him in desperation, to no avail – just _kiled_ her to be silent.

 But now that it is her _choice,_ it feels - good.

Powerful.

This time, it was _he_ looking to _her_ – _needed_ something from her.

This time, it was _she_ refusing to give it. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Hermione had told Ron briskly in response. “I don’t dislike any of our Professors.”

“What was _that_ about then?” he’d said, jerking his head back towards the classroom.

Hermione had not answered. She _still_ has not answered.

Because Ron _loves_ Viktor, it’s true, and Harry gets along with him just fine, but –

 _But_.

 Some part of her wonders how quickly that might change, if she told them what Professor Riddle had said. Wonders how their eyes might start to narrow when they look at him. Wonders how easy it will be for them to begin to believe that _this_ is what he sees in Hermione. That she isn’t interesting, isn’t funny, isn’t beautiful. But she _is_ a strategy. A pawn in this game.

The truth is, she could not blame them for thinking it.

 She has started to wonder herself.

Started slamming books shut when Viktor surprises her in the library, eyes narrowing when he asks her what she’s reading about – asks after Harry and Ron. Started guarding her responses, careful not to say a single _word_ about the Second Task, because she is _not_ being manipulated, but if she _is_ , if he is trying to –

Hermione is _not_ an idiot.

He has started to notice, of course.

 Viktor is not an idiot, either.

The hurt that flashes in his eyes when she snaps an impersonal response to a question – when she silences him with a kiss instead of telling her what she’s researching – the Black Lake, obviously, for _Harry_ – makes her queasy. Only, it looks so _real._ And surely it wouldn’t, if he were truly trying to use her to gain information, assistance? Surely he would only be angry, then. Besides, Karkaroff didn’t seem at all happy to find the pair of them together – _surely_ he would be practically playing matchmaker, if the plan truly was to recruit her to team Durmstrang? Unless, of course, he had only _pretended_ to disapprove, to throw her off.

Hermione’s head hurts when she thinks on it for too long.

So, of late, she has been trying not to think on it at all.

 She makes excuses not to see Viktor, and she keeps quiet in Defence Against the Dark Arts, though of course, the essays she hands in are as exemplary as ever; a fact which seems to irritate Professor Riddle to no end. She leaves the instant class is dismissed, even as Harry and Ron linger behind to speak with the Professor Ron’s been frothing at the mouth over since his rather brutal dismissal of Lavender Brown.

“You should’ve _seen_ him ‘Mione,” Ron had pressed in earnest at breakfast, the day after the fact. “Bloody hell, it was vicious.” He gestures to his arms, fine hairs standing up. “Look - got chills just thinking about it.”

Hermione swallows; sees Professor Riddle leaning over her, painfully close and voice absolutely _saturated_ with condescension,

_Debatable._

Her stomach feels oddly hollow.

 “I don’t doubt that.”

“Knew you’d come around at some point,” Harry had said, pleased.

“Mate,” Ron had said, unabashed through a mouthful of toast, “He took the mickey out of Malfoy _and_ Lavender. Anyone who does that has my _full_ approval. Fuck, I’d declare my undying loyalty to _You Know Who_ if he did that.”

Harry had laughed, and Hermione tried not to feel too alone.

 After all, it is a _good_ thing that Harry remains in Riddle’s good graces. As furious, as _hurt_ , as Hermione feels, Professor Riddle’s outburst told her one thing _unequivocally_.

He _is_ helping Harry.

 Rather determinedly at that.

 Even if he no longer trusts her with that information, he will continue to help Harry.

Of course, that only makes it harder to _truly_ detest him.

After all, helping Harry has occupied most of her nights this week, and, when she isn’t busy being grumpy at Riddle and conflicted about Viktor, it has occupied most of her thoughts, too.

It’s what she’s doing now, the night before the task, holed up in a rather musty isle of the library, sitting on the carpet with a particularly aged text open on her lap, Harry opposite her and frowning down at another.

“Say it again,” she says. “The clue from the egg.”

Harry closes his eyes, tired as he recites it for the umpteenth time.

“ _Come seek us where our voices sound, we cannot sing above the ground_ -”

“The Black Lake, obviously,” Hermione nods. “And ‘we’ – again, obvious. Merpeople have lived there since _before_ Hogwarts was founded- anyone who’s read _Hogwarts A History_ knows that.”

Harry looks like he’s half minded to make fun of her, but thinks better of it.

“ _And while you’re searching ponder this; we’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss_.” Harry grimaces. “Sounds _great_ , that.”

“Something important to you. A special item, I expect – perhaps the Firebolt for you, Harry.”

“Better not be. It’d be useless after a swim in the Black Lake.”

He makes a face.

“Alright- what’s next?” Hermione says, impatient, and Harry obliges.

“ _An hour long you’ll have to look, and to recover what we took- but past an hour, the prospect’s black. Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back_. Not threatening at _all_.”

“Again, obvious,” Hermione says, biting her lip. “Although potentially problematic.”

“Potentially problematic?” Harry says, sardonic. “When was the last time you held your breath underwater for an hour, Hermione?”

“Nobody said you have to hold your breath for an hour,” she insists. “We’ve just got to find the right spell, or potion – something to let you breath _in_ the water.”

“Such as?”

Hermione hesitates, loathe to admit that she doesn’t _know_.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says firmly. “There’s got to be _something_ in one of these books – I know that _animagi_ are able to transform into merpeople, so it _is_ possible- although, of course, the process of becoming an animagi takes at _least_ a month, and relies on the Full Moon –”

“Well, there goes that, then,” Harry says dully.

Hermione sighs.

“Keep looking. Between the two of us, we’ll find _something_ that can work. Besides,” she hesitates, “Hasn’t Cedric got any idea? Now that you’re-”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, and Harry doesn’t, either.

He _does_ turn quite spectacularly pink.  

“I’m not asking Cedric anything else about the Tournament,” he says firmly. “Besides, he already told me how to get the clue. It’s not his fault I’m hopeless at figuring it out. Plus, Cedric reckons it’d be unfair to the Fleur and Krum if we started collaborating.”

Hermione detects a hint of exasperated pride at that.

“Of course – it’s rather decent of him.”

“I don’t, um,” Harry sounds rather awkward, “I don’t suppose you’ve- figured anything out with Krum? About the task, I mean. Not that you’d have to tell me, y’know, if you have.”

“Of course not!” Hermione says at once. “We’ve _never_ talked about the Tournament. Besides, you know I want _you_ to win, Harry, don’t you?”

“’Course,” Harry says. “Although, I mean, don’t get me wrong, I really appreciate it, but it’d be okay if you wanted to help Krum, too. I mean, he is your – y’know.”

It is Hermione’s turn to go scarlet.

“Yes, well,” she clears her throat. “I mean, he _isn’t_ , really. I mean, I don’t know if he is. We haven’t spoken about -it.”

Though they have done rather a lot of kissing in the interim, not that she’s minded to burden Harry with that _particular_ piece of information.

“Oh,” Harry says.

“Have, uh, have you?” she asks tentatively. “And Cedric? Spoken about _it_ , that is?”

“Nah,” Harry says, a little too loudly. “Maybe we should. I dunno. I think he had fun at the Ball.”

“Well of course he did! Besides, _he_ asked _you_.”

“I ‘spose,” he mutters, embarrassed, it would seem, and Hermione can’t blame him.

She coughs.

“Well,” she says hurriedly, “in any case – the clue.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, suddenly enthusiastic. “Yeah, let’s find this spell.”

“Miss Granger.”

At the curt, familiar voice, Hermione turns and looks up at Professor McGonagall.

“I wagered I would find you here,” she says, a thin smile warming her features.

“You were looking for me, Professor?” Hermione asks, confused.

“Indeed. If you would come with me, please.”

McGonagall beckons Hermione with a single finger, brows raised, expectant.

Hermione hesitates.

“Professor,” she tries, “will this take long? I apologise, it’s only that- well, as you know, the second task is tomorrow-”

“And as such, having diligently prepared, Potter ought to be heading to the common room for a good night’s rest,” McGonagall interjects, unsympathetic.

Hermione throws Harry a helpless look.

He only waves her on, resigned.

“S’okay. I’ll catch up with you later.”

McGonagall nods, casts her eyes back to Hermione.

She swallows.

“Alright,” she says, disappointed. “I mean- _of course_ , Professor.”

* * *

 

Harry is _royally_ fucked.

Quite remarkably so; and if he were in a better mood – if _Ron_ were here - he might see fit to laugh about it.

But the second task is _tomorrow_ and he is in a foul mood, and he hasn’t seen Ron since dinner.

Half the books Hermione divided into neat piles on the floor and identified as ‘promising’ aren’t even written in English; one of them appears to be exclusively comprised of a series of triangles and circles, and another started shouting at him when he flipped to a page in the middle.

An _hour._

There’s nothing else for it, he draws in a deep breath, and starts counting.

 _Two, three, four, five_ –

How deep is the Black Lake, anyway? He’ll just hang near the surface, come up for air every now and then.

That, or he’ll just kiss his firebolt – or whatever it is they take- goodbye.

In spite of himself, he finds himself wishing he could just ask Cedric.

He’s sorted something out, Harry knows that much.

And, to put Cedric’s worries at bay, Harry fibbed, told him that he’d figured it out as well.

_Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen -_

His chest tightens at the very thought of the boy.

 Harry had thought, perhaps, that after the Yule Ball, he might _understand_ Cedric. Understand why, _how_ , his every act is grounded in integrity, in _kindness,_ how he is _always_ fucking smiling.

 He had thought wrong, though Harry is no less interested in finding the answer.

It certainly didn’t help that he’d met Harry by the Fat Lady outside the Gryffindor common room, sharp in his dress-robes and pink in the cheeks, offering his arm like a –

Like a _date._

And Harry had nothing to do but turn red and choke out a greeting, throat suddenly dry.

Nothing to do but wonder who the _hell_ Cedric _is,_ to behave this way –courteous, shy, bold, all at once, and to _him,_ out of everyone.

_Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty-_

It didn’t help that, when the firewhisky had Harry’s head properly _spinning,_ and he, and Ron, and Hermione were whirling each other around the dancefloor in jest, Cedric had put his own hands at Harry’s waist, firm, _real_ , and it was nothing like the way he and Ron had jokingly embraced and spun in circles, nothing like the way he had mocked slow-dancing with Hermione.

It was like something else.  

Like a date.

It wasn’t, of course.

Cedric had said so.

‘Friends’, he’d said, and so it _wasn’t_.

Besides, Harry doesn’t even know if he thinks about _anyone_ that way, let alone _Cedric Diggory._

He’s always had other things to think about – pressing stuff, like his burning scar and Death Eaters and going home in the summer to his own personal hell.

Not that any of this matters, because it wasn’t a date.

 It wasn’t, and that’s fine.

Though, Harry supposes, a date would have to be pretty damn spectacular to beat the Yule Ball with Cedric Diggory.

_Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven -_

His lungs are starting to burn, and he claps his hand over his mouth, fighting the urge, the need, to invite the air in.

_Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three-_

He can’t help himself.

With a desperate gasp, he inhales.

 _Fifty-three seconds_.

 _That’s_ how long he can hold his breath.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, slamming his fists into the floor in frustration, which doesn’t help matters. His knuckles burn upon contact with the itching carpet.

“Merlin, Potter.”

Harry braces himself – but it is only Professor Riddle, amused as he appraises Harry’s predicament on the ground.

“What did the floor ever do to you to warrant such _abuse_?”

“Sir,” he says hastily.

Riddle’s eyes are narrow as he scans over the books tossed aside unceremoniously on Harry’s either side.

“I only came to warn you,” Riddle says, expression unreadable, “it might be advisable that you retire to your Common Room, Potter. It is near curfew, and if you’re caught in breach, you may be penalised in the Tournament tomorrow. Professor Dumbledore’s rules, you understand.”

Harry resists the urge to swear some more.

Sure, these books are proving useless – but with them, he’s decidedly _less_ fucked than without them.

“Please, Sir,” he says, hoping he doesn’t look, sound, as desperate as he feels. “The second task is tomorrow.”

“So it is,” Riddle says apparently indifferent. “All the more reason to retire. It will be an early start, as I understand it.”  

He sounds like Professor McGonagall.

And yet-

 _And yet_.

He had told Hermione about the dragons – practically had, anyway. And he had outright told her that if he opened the blasted egg in the right environment, it would finally stop screaming.

He is _not_ Professor McGonagall.

“Sir,” he bursts, knowing, on some level, that it is a risk, but taking it all the same, “I don’t know how to do it. The task. I haven’t figured out how…” he trails off, head in his hands. “Blimey.”

Riddle doesn’t move.

His face doesn’t change, and Harry has no idea whether he’s about to save his ass, or scold him for fishing for forbidden assistance.

Harry waits, shifting where he sits, as the Professor studies him.

He leans in, hopeful, as Riddle finally opens his mouth to speak.

“Longbottom.”

* * *

 

_Longbottom?_

Bloody hell. Of all the words he could have hoped, or feared, Professor Riddle might say, this wasn’t even _close_ to being one of them.

Riddle clears his throat, says it louder.

“ _Longbottom_.”

At that, a flustered-looking Neville peers in from another isle, arms wrapped firmly around a large book that appears to be covered in a layer of earthy moss.

“Professor? Sorry, Sir, I know it’s nearly curfew, I was just leaving- been reading- you were right, Sir, really interesting stuff-”

“That’s quite alright, Longbottom,” Riddle says with an artificial smile. “I was rather hoping you’d assist Potter in putting these books back in order.”

“Oh,” Neville says, and, upon registering that he _isn’t_ in trouble, grins a rather bewildered grin. “Sure, Sir!”

“That’s alright, Neville,” Harry says warily. “I can do it myself.”

“I don’t mind,” Neville insists, already crouched and at work dismantling the great piles Hermione has constructed.

“Indeed,” Riddle says. “Take the help, Potter.”

His eyes _gleam_ , then.

They gleam, and Harry thinks of Cedric and the bath, the _help_ that didn’t sound remotely helpful, until it became _invaluable_.

Harry glances over Neville, his unassuming form. He is wearing a worn blue cardigan his Gran had given him for Christmas two years ago, and his ears stick out from under a mess of hair.

That boy, somehow, is going to _help_ Harry, _really_ help him –

His heart is hammering with a renewed vigour.  

Swallowing, he nods at the Professor over Neville’s shoulder.

Riddle’s mouth twitches upward, not quite a smirk.

 _You’re welcome_ , it seems to say, though Harry can’t be sure.

Professor Riddle is half-turned on his feet, and Harry is leaning towards Neville, when Riddle stops, frowns.

“It’s the night before the second task,” he says, slow.

“ _Oh_ ,” Neville says, eyes widening. “Oh yeah! I’d forgotten. You nervous, Harry?”

Harry, and Riddle, ignore him.

“Professor?” Harry says.

“It is the night before the second task, and Miss Granger is not here, assisting you?” Riddle muses, an edge to his voice.

“Well, she _was_ ,” Harry hesitates.

He doesn’t know _what_ it is that happened at the Yule Ball, but does know that ever since, Hermione hasn’t seen fit to dignify Professor Riddle with so much as an answer in class.

He hopes he’s not getting Hermione in some sort of trouble, admitting that she was helping him- though, given she’d only ever done so with Riddle’s _blessing,_ he’s betting against it.

“Was?” Riddle says, delicately.

“Professor McGonagall needed her,” Harry says.

And Riddle _freezes._

He freezes, and there is this _look_ on his face -

“I see,” Riddle says, quietly, too quietly. “As you were, Mr Potter.”

Before Harry can ask him a _thing,_ register the uneasy feeling that settled in his gut at the look on the Professor’s face, Riddle is _gone_ , leaving Harry merely blinking.

“What was _that_?” he murmurs, perplexed.

“You can say that again,” Neville chirps up, and Harry, guiltily, remembers that the other boy is here - to help him with his books, as it were.

“Sorry about this, Neville,” he says. “You don’t have to help me, really.”

“Really, Harry, I don’t mind,” Neville says, terribly earnest. “Besides, you must be awfully nervous. About tomorrow, I mean. I know I would be. Say, what ended up being inside that egg?”

“A clue,” Harry swallows, thinking hard. If he is right, and he bloody well hopes he is, he only needs to ask the right questions, and Neville will lead him right to the miracle solution he’s looking for. “I know we’re not supposed to tell people what we find out, but,” he leans in confidentially, “I think the task involves the Black Lake.”

“Woah,” Neville breathes, impressed, even as he stacks Harry’s books and starts distributing them throughout the shelves that tower over the pair of them. “You know, the Black Lake’s got some really interesting plants in it – some of them have been _growing_ there for centuries, and they have all sorts of properties that are unique to-”

“Right,” Harry cuts him off, politely, or so he hopes. “Thing is, I still haven’t figured it all out. I think I’m going to have to be _in_ the Lake, you know. Underwater.”

“With the Merpeople?” Neville says, rather missing, to Harry’s disappointment, the point. “I’ve just read about them! Did you know that their hair, it’s actually a sort of _plant_ in itself – it’s _alive_ – Professor Riddle gave me this book _all_ about them, if you’re interested.”

“I’m not-” Harry begins, frustrated, but, “Professor _Riddle_ gave you that book?”

Neville nods, and Harry grips Neville’s wrist, eyes bearing into his.

“Right,” he breathes. “Listen, Neville – _listen,_ this is important. Is there anything in that book that could help me stay underwater for an hour without dying?”

Neville hesitates, rattled, it seems, by the urgency in Harry’s voice, by the fingers digging into his wrist.

“Well,” he says, and for a moment, Harry’s heart sinks.

 Because Neville looks hopeless, like he hasn’t got a _clue._

Like Harry was wrong, and Riddle really did just send him over to help Harry clear out of the library before curfew.

“I mean, I’ve never used it myself, but, have you heard of gillyweed?”

Harry has not.

Heard of gillyweed, that is.

But hearing of it now, it rather sounds like his fucking _salvation_.

He could _kiss_ Neville.

* * *

 

“Is this about my latest Transfiguration essay, Professor?”

Hermione is anxious.

Professor Riddle is one thing, but Hermione prides herself on being on rather excellent terms with all of her _other_ teachers, and Professor McGonagall has _never_ been any exception.

They are in her office now, and McGonagall hasn’t said a word the whole walk here about what it is that she needs to speak to Hermione about.

“If it wasn’t my best work – Professor, I don’t have any excuses, but-”

“Your work is excellent, Miss Granger,” McGonagall cuts her off, sparing a rare, reassuring smile that is gone as fast as it appeared. “There is another matter, however, I must discuss with you.”

“Alright,” Hermione swallows, mind humming with ideas, questions.

Professor McGonagall appraises her, exhaling sharply.

“Granger, it gives me no pleasure to do this to you,” she says, serene, “but it is necessary for the Triwizard Tournament, you understand.”

“The Tournament?” Hermione says, puzzled. “Professor- I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Is this about me helping Harry?”

“Not at all.”

Hermione hesitates.

“Then- then Professor, I just don’t-”

Professor McGonagall’s wand is out.

Her wand is out, and it is bearing pointedly on Hermione with clinical accuracy and Hermione is too surprised to draw her own, even as two peculiar things happen all at once.

_One._

The door opens rather suddenly, _slams_ against the brick walls of McGonagall’s office, and Hermione  _swears_ that it is _Professor Riddle_ standing behind it, face like a s _torm_ –

_Two._

 Professor McGonagall’s eyes dart up, perplexed, but her wand does not drop, and she is murmuring something, fast, urgent, under her breath.

Hermione feels something sharp hit her middle, a jarring ache as her legs give out.

And then, she feels nothing, sees _nothing_ , at all.

* * *

 

Harry is standing on a tiny wooden platform, the lowest of a rather alarmingly high stack in the heart of the Black Lake, wearing shorts and a red shirt, fistful of gillyweed in his pocket after a sleepless night featuring an excitable Neville running to Sprout’s personal Greenhouse to knick some of the rare herb.

Cedric, all in yellow, comes to stand beside him. His legs are shaking, and his hands are distinctly gillyweed-free, which is just as well; it’s as foul-smelling as it is disconcertingly _wet_ to touch.

“You feeling alright?” Cedric says, tuning out, for a single, brilliant moment, the rumble of anticipated whispers and shouts throughout this makeshift observatory tower.

 “Spectacular,” Harry says flatly.

In truth, he’s petrified.

He mostly blames Neville’s last words before he shuffled into the audience:

“Hope it works! Book didn’t say anything about how _long_ it lasts.”

That, and he hasn’t seen Ron _or_ Hermione all morning.

“Brilliant. We’re on the same page, then,” Cedric says, voice riddled with pure _nerves,_ and Harry gives him the best smile he can manage.

“See you on the other side?”

“That’d be nice,” Cedric says, so unapologetically, _unabashedly_ , that Harry finds himself catching his breath, cheeks tinged pink.

“Attention, students, Champions.”

An announcement, booming across the Lake –

Harry frowns.

 “Madam Maxime,” Cedric murmurs, eyes sharp. “Why isn’t Dumbledore here?”

“Beats me.”

Harry cranes his neck, looking up at the formidable woman, speaking into her wand as it projects her voice to all of them.

“Last night, something valuable was stolen from each Champion, and given over to the Merpeople of this fine Lake.”

Cedric freezes at that, suddenly terribly pale.

“Xavier,” he says, under his breath, and Harry is struck all at once with understanding, with dread.

He knows why he has not seen Ron or Hermione this morning.

“Champions, you have exactly an hour to find them.”

Madam Maxime spares Fleur a look, and it is something like reassurance.

“ _Begin_.”  

* * *

 

Hermione can’t _breathe_ when she opens her eyes.

She feels it first, the fierce _burn_ of her lungs, prickling, impossibly _uncomfortable._

Feels _heavy_ , clothing _clinging_ to her body, dragging her down.

Feels _cold_ , supremely so, and absolutely soaked, submerged in water.

 _Hears_ something, as though far off, a roaring sound – _applause_.

When she blinks into the jarring light, she sees that she is in black water, a precarious tower of spectators to her side.

Disoriented, _aching_ , as she is, it takes her all of one moment to understand _why_.  

 _And while you’re searching ponder this; we’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss_.

_Oh._

How foolish of her to have overlooked it – of course, it is _barbaric_ , astounding – but then, that _is_ the native character of this Tournament.

She should have known the moment McGonagall sent for her.

Should’ve told Harry.

An arm is corded around her middle, the only warmth to mitigate the cold, and, grateful, she splashes around to look at Harry, to ask him how he’d figured it out, in the end, to tell him how sorry she is, how _stupid_ she feels, to not have worked it out herself -

 “Ermiown-ninny.”

Hermione’s lips part, surprised.

“ _Viktor_?”

She winces.

It _pains_ her to speak.

Krum’s hair is dripping wet, and he shakes it, impatient, thumb brushing under her chin.

His face is the very picture of concern: brows furrowed, eyes wide.

He really would _miss_ her, she realises. He, not Harry.

If she were any less disoriented, petrified with cold, she imagines she might smile.

“It eez alright,” he says, though his mouth is trembling. It seems not even the great Viktor Krum is immune to the icy water. “You vill be alright.”

“Not if you insist on letting her _freeze_ there she won’t.”

Even as Hermione wonders where on earth _Professor Riddle’s_ rather irate voice is coming from, she feels arms, wiry, but firm, and _heavenly_ dry, slip around her shoulders, tug _up_ with surprising force.

Her whole body shudders as she lands ungracefully on the wooden platform she and Krum were hovering by, the air somehow more _unforgivingly_ cold than the water –

She coughs, and she is not quite sure if it is blood or water she splutters onto the damp planks that comprise the platform, but it is one of the two.

“Granger.”

It is all Hermione can do to blink, dazed, as she registers Riddle, on his knees by her side, wand in hand. His sleeves are rolled up, though the ends are dripping with water, which means –

Which means _he_ was the one to pull her from the Lake.

She cranes her neck over the edge, searching for Viktor.

“Prof-” she tries, but it only _grates_ at her throat, and in any case, Riddle’s placed a slender finger on her lips at once, silencing her.

“Don’t try to talk,” he warns. “You’ll only make it worse.”

Hermione shivers, nods. Her neck feels awfully stiff.

“I take it you’re aware by now that you were taken as a hostage for the Second Task. You’ve been petrified since last night, and underwater for the better part of two hours. It will take a few hours for the more painful effects to wear off,” he says clinically.

Hermione swallows, her mind still in McGonagall’s office.

She wonders if she had imagined him there, bursting through the doors, face like thunder.

Professor Riddle frowns, and, though Hermione knows she’s hardly one to talk at this precise minute, she can’t help but think that he looks uncharacteristically _dishevelled_ ; his normally immaculate hair sticking out in places, ruffled, shirt crumpled, jaw tight, some _look_ on his face, some feeling, that she has never seen him wear before.

He wears it well, she thinks.

“-another one, I see! If you send her to the medical station, our Healer will be with her after-”

Somebody is at Riddle’s shoulder, gesturing somewhere behind Hermione.

_Another one._

Which means at least one other Champion is back already.

Merlin, she _hopes_ it is Harry.

“That won’t be necessary,” Riddle says, dismissive, not bothering to dignify the woman with a glance.

The woman hesitates, eyes wide as she looks at Hermione, and she wonders if she really looks as dreadful as she feels.

“But-”

“I believe you _heard me_.”

There is a ringing finality in Riddle’s tone that isn’t open to questioning.

“Of course,” the woman says, hasty, and she does what Hermione supposes is the sensible thing to do, and leaves Riddle be at once.

The Professor is studying Hermione, intent, urgent, when he raises his palm so that it _hovers,_ just inches from her chest, and despite herself, Hermione _flushes_ , heart positively racing, wondering what it is he means to do, but his hand doesn’t move, not at _all_ –

Riddle closes his eyes, and at once, Hermione feels _flooded_ with heat, rushing through her very veins, and the _trembling_ stops, though it is displaced by something else, some new, delicious sensation.

 _Non-verbal magic_.

He is healing her, she realises. _Helping_ her.

He is making it awfully difficult to carry on resenting him – but she won’t say thank you.

She won’t.

She physically can’t, anyway, she supposes, but even if she could, the principle is there.

Besides, she has more pressing things to say to him.

She swallows, hoping in vain to counter her dry throat.

“Harry?”

Her voice is perfectly _pathetic_ , she knows it is, but her eyes meet his, firm.

Riddle draws in a breath as he looks at her, mouth open, if only a little.

“What did I say about talking?” he says, but it is so terribly _gentle_ –

Merlin.

Hermione still hates him.

She wants to, at least, and isn’t that the same thing?  

 “ _Harry_.”

She says it again, unrelenting.

Riddle hesitates.

“He hasn’t returned yet,” he admits. “Diggory was the first back. Potter and Delacour have yet to return.”

Hermione inhales sharply.

Harry, and Fleur, and the Black Lake; the _Merpeople._  

She expects he’s supposed to find Ronald, then – it’s the only person she can really think of, and besides, it makes sense.

Ron had disappeared long before she and Harry had head to the library last night.  

Merlin, what if Harry never figured it out?

What if he’s drowned? What if he’s drown _ing_?

Hermione pushes down hard off her elbows, lifting her chest from the hard surface of the platform, even as her bones ache in protest –

Riddle is faster, and admittedly, _infuriatingly_ , stronger.

His fingers grip her forearms, squeezing only lightly, only enough to caution her.

“You are an _abysmal_ patient, Granger,” he murmurs, and the warm of his breath is soothing, calming, and god knows, it shouldn’t be.

Not to her.

Not now.

“Ermiown-ninny!”

It is Viktor. Towel hanging over his shoulders, eyes narrow, he approaches.

Over his shoulder, Hermione spots Fleur Delacour, and her heart _sinks._ Fleur is crying, she notes, saying something about her sister, and if she strains, she can hear Madam Maxime on the speakers –

Something like _forced to resign._

“You must get to ze Healers,” Viktor says, breaking her out of her reverie and throwing Riddle an accusing look.

“The _Healers_ ,” Riddle says thinly, “are hopeless. They’ve been occupied with Mr Diggory’s friend for the better part of fifteen minutes. Granger’s better off in _my_ care. She’s not going anywhere.”

_My care._

If Hermione’s chest tightens at that, heart _stammers_ at that, she’ll certainly not admit it.

Viktor is royally unconvinced. He drops to his knees, grabs Hermione’s hand.

“It’s okay,” Hermione says, giving what she hopes to be a reassuring nod. “Professor Riddle, he- he can help me.”

“I thought zat you were a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?”

Krum is _scowling_ , though Hermione can’t guess why.  

“Expertise in one area does not mean incompetence in others, Mr Krum, contrary to what you might believe due to your _personal_ experiences,” Riddle says delicately. “Now, if you don’t mind, I do believe you’ve done enough _damage_ to Miss Granger today, don’t you?”

Krum looks absolutely furious now, and this time, Hermione can’t blame him.

From her distinctly disempowering position on the floor, she shoots Riddle a befuddled look.

“I ‘ad _no_ idea vot this task vould be,” Viktor says heatedly. “It eez not I who kidnapped ‘Ermiown-ninny. Zat cruel idea vas not _mine_.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Hermione says, yet despite the raw effort, the pain, it takes her to form the words, Riddle pays her no mind.

There is some gleam to his eyes, some _anger to_ them, and when he speaks, it is fast and low.

“You couldn’t possibly have _missed s_ omeone else, though, could you? Someone not remotely _important,_ some plain, moronic-”

“ _Professor Riddle_.”

Hermione’s eyes jerk up, even as her heart drums in her chest, as she wonders what Riddle is saying, what it _means_ -

 It’s been a long time since she has heard this voice.

 Too long.

So it is with some feeling of immense relief that she takes in the face of Albus Dumbledore.

He looks worn, it is true- tired, _undoubtedly_ \- but composed as ever, and his eyes are trained on Professor Riddle.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Riddle says, and it is remarkable, Hermione thinks, _impossible_ even, but she could swear he looks apprehensive.

 _Afraid_ , even.

Of course, if he is, his voice won’t show it, smooth, deep.

“I wasn’t aware you were attending this morning.”

“I have been unwell, it is true,” Dumbledore says, serene. “But I wanted to ensure that our Champions arrived safely back on land.”

“Noble of you.”

Riddle’s smile is as disingenuous as Hermione has ever seen, and by the slightest lift of Professor Dumbledore’s eyebrows, it seems he knows it.

Hermione frowns, curiosity compelling her to lean forward, even as her body protests _adamantly_.

“I believe Mr Krum has been through a great deal this morning,” Dumbledore clears his throat. “You would do well to remember that.”

Professor Riddle is actually _flushed_ , now, and it has Hermione _dumbfounded_.

“Of course,” he says, terribly curt. “Headmaster.”

He inclines his head.

Dumbledore only stares at him, brow furrowed slightly, and it’s an expression that has Hermione transfixed- curious, and if she were to say precisely why, it would be because he is truly _staring_ \- like he is trying to piece together a puzzle.

Because Professor Riddle swallows hard, even as he meets that gaze.

The moment stretches out a beat too long.

In the end, it is disrupted only by a fresh burst of cheers, shouts of euphoria, relief, from the Hogwarts crowd.

Somewhere on the platform, Hermione sees Cedric put his hand to his heart and sink to his knees, even as Madam Maxime calls out over the speakers the words Hermione has been anxious to hear since Riddle pulled her from the water.

“Harry Potter has emerged from the water, in fourth place – and he has _both_ remaining hostages with him.”

“Both?” It is Viktor, frowning. He glances at Hermione. “Ve vere only allowed to rescue _our_ hostage. The Merpeople vould not let us take more.”

Of course.

If Fleur never made it to her hostage, if Harry was the last in the water - 

Hermione imagines the Merpeople, trying as they might to tell Harry to leave Fleur's precious somebody alone in the Lake. 

Trying as they might to explain to him that it isn't to him to save this one.  

It hurts her cheeks to do it, but Hermione can’t _help_ but smile.

Because Merlin, if that isn’t just so typically _, wonderfully_ Harry James Potter, she doesn’t know what is.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Thank you guys so so much for sharing your thoughts on the last chapter - I was so thrilled to hear them! 
> 
> So, the most devastating part of writing this update for me was realising that because of the pesky changes I made to canonical history to make this fic plausible, the series of events in Chamber of Secrets that led to Harry meeting Dobby, and procuring his freedom, never happened - so he wasn't able to pop in to get the gillyweed like he did in the book.  
> I am actually so apologetic about that, and am determined to work Dobby into this fic in some way later on because let's be real, he's excellent and the real hero of the series. 
> 
> This is so, so very rushed, so if you do spot errors, please let me know!
> 
> Starting next chapter, we're finally reaching the parts of the story that I've been dying to write since the beginning, so I am so excited to hear what you think of them! 
> 
> But for now, I'd be delighted to hear what you make of this one :)


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

 

Hermione is exhausted.

It is, of course, only to be expected.

Professor Riddle told her - and Ron – how fatigue forms part of the cocktail of side effects that may present, courtesy of the enchantment that saw them frozen amongst the Merpeople and ice water.

So she had not thought anything of it when she found she couldn’t quite bring herself to celebrate with a rowdy Gryffindor House afterwards, when Harry, at the unanimous decree of Dumbledore, Maxime, and Karkaroff, was deemed to have come not last, but _second_ , owing to his ‘outstanding moral fibre’ – his determination not to return to the surface until _nobody_ remained suspended in the deep and the dark, never-mind that they were never supposed to be his to find.

Ron _still_ thinks he’s an idiot, of course, for believing that they were ever _truly_ in danger. For believing that they really would have been _left_ there, _indefinitely_ , had he not freed them, and Hermione won’t say it, but she’s rather minded to agree.

Nobody is more grateful than Fleur Delacour, who showered Harry in kisses along with her little sister, Gabrielle, when he emerged from the Lake, guiding a spluttering Ron through the water with one arm and the timid French girl with the other.

“ _Thank you_ ,” she had said, voice coarse from crying, and she had just kept saying it, over and over, as though she could not possibly say it enough.

She had even kissed _Ron_ on the cheek, believing, albeit mistakenly, that _he_ had helped somehow.

He had turned promptly crimson, and Hermione rather suspected that when he spluttered something nonsensical and high-pitched about how it was ‘all in a day’s work’ in response, it was _nothing_ to do with the fact that his throat was raw from coughing up water.

This, she knew, she and Harry would tease him about later.

For now, they were all drained, too _disoriented_ , cold, to say anything of substance now.

Professor Riddle, curiously, had not left her side.

Not when Ron and Harry found her, wrapped in red towels and shivering through clinking teeth.

Not when Cedric sat beside her, propping Harry up with an arm slung around his shoulders, murmuring something in his ear, something like “ _thank Merlin_.”

 Not when Rita Skeeter, dressed in purple wool and alarming, bright lipstick to match, came sticking her nose about, quill conjuring up its own inventive rendition of the day’s events with vigour.

He did not say much; only told her to turn her head this way or that every now and then.

With a frown, he would study her, fingers brushed light under her chin, tilting her face towards him, though she was too worried for Harry, for Viktor, Cedric, Fleur, to understand quite _why_ his features were so twisted with concern.

He was silent, too, when he walked with them to the common room, hand steady and pressed into the small of her back through hordes of excitable spectators trying to speak to her, and it would have felt like _something_ , something almost _intimate_ , were his other hand not firm against Harry, beside her, guiding them _both_ home.

He was, of course, only being professional.

Only seeing to it that his students were uninjured, were _safe_.

It would be _poor manners_ not to, she supposes, and he is so touchingly concerned with proper _manners_ , isn’t he?

The Fat Lady, naturally, became flustered at the sight of him, gathering her skirts and biting down on her lip too hard.

“ _Professor,”_ she had said, voice actually _sultry_. “I feared we were never to meet again.”

Last time, he had smiled.

Last time, he had _humoured_ her.

This time, he only glowered.  

“Are you going to let the students inside, or must I report you to the Headmaster for failing to administer your duties promptly _, Lady_?” he’d said, harsh, and if Hermione were any less utterly _spent_ , she might have felt a twinge of sympathy for the lonely portrait as her cheeks turned red and eyes fell down.

But she _was_ spent, spectacularly so, and so she was only grateful.

“See to it that you _rest_ , Granger,” he’d said, and his eyes were _soft_ and his mouth was the same and it was perfectly _unfair_ , of course, because she was still furious with him, and she was beginning to forget why.

“Yes, Professor.”

Her voice was still _weak,_ infuriatingly so.

She wanted to say more.

She wanted to ask him w _hy_ he insisted on being the one to examine her, not the Tournament Healers.

Why he spoke to Viktor that way, like it was _his_ fault. Like it was _anything_ to Riddle whether Hermione did or did not wind up drowned in the Black Lake.

Whether she was imagining things, or if he really _was_ in McGonagall’s office the night before, the word s _top_ written all over his face.

She wanted to ask why he walked she and Harry back to the Common Room, as though they needed protecting.

As though they were _his_ responsibility.

But he was gone in an instant, and she was left merely with wanting, until she crashed into her bed, sleep enveloping her even as her eyes fell shut.

Still, when she wakes, she is exhausted.

Even when Ronald isn’t, anymore.

Even when _he_ is cheerful as he has ever been, chatting over heavily buttered toast as though he’s starved of conversation – and, she supposes, he is.

“Fucking Skeeter,” he chortles, chucking this morning’s _Prophet_ across the table at Hermione with _gusto_. “ _Heartbroken Harry’s Cry for Help._ She’s persistent, you’ve got to give her that.”

Hermione is too tired to feel properly angry when she blinks down at the heading before her, a picture of Viktor, scowling, accompanying underneath – though it was Professor Riddle, she notes, and not Harry, who’d been at the receiving end of it.

Cedric, who has taken up the seat beside her opposite Harry, leans in, eyes dancing with amusement.

“ _Hogwarts Underdog Harry Potter faced a new personal low in the depths of the Black Lake yesterday, as Bulgarian Champion and heart-throb, Viktor Krum, rescued Harry’s now ex-lover, Hermione Granger, even as Harry insisted that_ he _be the one to do so. Unable to accept that Miss Granger has moved on, Potter acted out recklessly, remaining underwater and derailing the Tournament by unleashing all task hostages. Tournament officials rewarded Potter for his behaviour, but at the_ Daily Prophet, _we find ourselves asking: is Harry a hero, or is this really a desperate cry for help?”_ he shakes his head, bewildered.

“She’s got me there,” Harry says, voice riddled with sarcasm. “I was just _acting out_. How _dare_ Krum? Send him my absolute _worst_ wishes when you see him next, will you, Hermione?”

“I can’t _believe_ she’s still running with this ridiculous story,” Hermione says, voice still rather hoarse. “I mean, especially given _you two_ , now.”

She gestures towards Harry and Cedric.

Harry flushes, suddenly mesmerised with his eggs, but Cedric does not look away.

His mouth is curved up.

“I expect that’s a tad too scandalous,” he says. “Even for Rita Skeeter.”

“Besides, she’s already picked the story she wants to tell,” Ron shrugs. “Sorry, ‘Mione. Looks like you’re gonna have to be careful checking the mail from here on out. This is following you to the _grave_.”

Hermione shudders at that.

When she closes her eyes, she can still feel the warm sting of her hands, swelling double their size and more.

“Blimey, look, it gets even _better_ ,” Ron grins, snatching the paper back and clearing his throat. “‘ _I’m really worried about him,’ says close friend of Potter, Draco Malfoy. ‘He’s always had a bit of a superiority complex, but being rejected by someone as plain as Granger has got to sting.”_

Harry’s mouth falls _open_ , flabbergasted.

“ _Close friends?”_

“Perhaps we should send Rita Skeeter a dictionary for Christmas,” Cedric puts mildly.

“The only thing I want to send Rita Skeeter for Christmas is a Ton-Tongue Toffee,” Harry mutters, a dark look on his face.

“Harry!” Cedric says, reproachful, and Hermione _should_ agree with him.

Instead, she finds herself quite content imagining Rita Skeeter trying to instruct that menace of a quill of hers with a four-foot tongue hanging heavy from her mouth.

The others keep talking, keep laughing, as she does, and her brain is too _clouded_ to catch back on, eyes too comfortable _closed_.

She hardly notices when, one by one, they start to leave – to the Quidditch pitch, to the Common Room, to class.

It is only when Cedric grips her arm, gentle, but firm, and asks her if she is alright, that Hermione blinks herself out of her reverie.

“Fine! I’m fine. Thank you, Cedric.”

She smiles, and he meets it with his own rather dazzling one.

“Great. Look, I’ve got to go to class. I’ll see you and Harry at lunch, yeah?”

 She nods, and, satisfied, Cedric hauls his bag over his shoulder and turns around, leaving Hermione alone in the corner of the table, only the _Prophet,_ and Viktor’s stormy face, for company.

She sighs, exasperated and seriously contemplating penning a passionate letter to the _Prophet_ petitioning to have Rita Skeeter fired for journalistic misconduct, for conjuring up stories where there are none, for taking up the front page with rubbish when there are _important_ things happening in the world, things that they really _should_ be informed about. Things like-

She flicks open the _Prophet,_ scanning for some semblance of _real_ news.

_Saint Mungo’s Hospital, privatised, protests –_

_Cornelius Fudge denies rumours of corruption –_

_Search continues for escaped convict, Sirius Black –_

Her chest tightens.

She pauses, then, eyes narrowing on the title of a rather inconspicuous side column in the very middle of the paper.

 _Garrick Olivander Closes Shop, Disappears_.

“Olivanders,” she murmurs, _perplexed_ , bothered more than she ought to be, more than is called for –

“Ermiown-ninny.”

She looks up.

Viktor, the _real_ one, stands behind her, looking strangely small in his fur coat, brow furrowed.

He is not scowling like he is in the _Daily Prophet_ , but he is not smiling either.

He almost looks sad.

“Vould you like to come for a valk?”

Hermione bites her lip.

She thinks, briefly, albeit longingly, of her bed, hastily made this morning, probably still warm.

But Viktor isn’t _smiling_ , and it has some cold feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

Folding the _Prophet_ over on the table, she draws herself to her feet, forcing a smile.

“Of course.”

* * *

 

With the benefit of hindsight, Hermione figures taking a walk by the Black Lake was hardly the way to improve Krum’s mood – or her own.

At the sting of the cold air on her skin, the sight of the mass of water stretching out impossibly far, Hermione shudders, throat tightening, and Viktor’s eyes narrow, jaw still _locked_ , unsmiling.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, tentative. “Two down, one to go?”

“I am fine,” he says shortly. “And you?”

“Much better,” she says, smiling at him encouragingly, but to no avail, and the blank look on his face stirs some unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach.  

It occurs to her that he may mean to break up with her.

Not that they ever established that they _were_ in fact, dating, or together in any sense.

But it would make sense, of course.

After all, he’s just been forced to dive into _cruelly_ cold waters infested with Merpeople and grindylows plants that like to grab at things that drift their way, transfigured into a _shark_ , to rescue her.

What was it that Professor Riddle had said at the Ball?

Something about the ‘ _little utility’_ to be found in relationships.

Something about how they are merely ‘ _distractions_ ’.

Perhaps Viktor has decided that he was right.

That she is a liability that he cannot afford; not in this competition.

Perhaps Riddle was right, too.

Perhaps he only ever expressed interest in Hermione because he fancied her his one-way ticket to the Triwizard Cup - and now that she’s proved useless, he’s cutting his losses.

She swallows.

Hermione has never been broken up with before, though she has of course lost plenty of friends.

In school, when she was still living and breathing as Hermione Jean Granger, the Muggle, it was almost a weekly occurrence.

She would smile widely at everybody she met, and one day, a kind-looking girl would smile back, and they would become _quite_ enamoured with one another, if only for a number of days. By then, Hermione’s insistence at doing sudoku puzzles at lunch or reading ahead after school for English were no longer endearing quirks, but the red-flag characteristics of somebody they didn’t want to be friends with _at all_.

It rather hurt, of course.

But she is used to it by now.

This shouldn’t feel different, at least.

Shouldn’t feel _worse_.

“And ‘ow is Harry?” Krum says colourlessly. “And ze other friend of yours, ze Quidditch one, Ronaldo?”

“Ron,” Hermione says. Both well.” She clears her throat. “Viktor, is everything alright?”

She doesn’t want to look at him when he says it.

She isn’t certain of how it will _feel_ when he does.

He stops walking rather abruptly, hesitating, and Hermione closes her eyes, nodding, only a little, accepting the words even before he has said them –

“I don’t like your Professor Riddle.”

Hermione opens her eyes, frowns; _wildly_ off-base in her predictions, it seems.

“What?”

Viktor swallows, the muscles in his neck working, but he presses on determinedly.

“Ze Professor, from ze Ball, and ze Lake, yesterday- ze one who healed you.”

“Yes- I know who you’re talking about,” Hermione says, puzzled.

On the one hand, she is not _surprised_ that Riddle isn’t Krum’s cup of tea.

He was rather rude to him yesterday, after all.

But then, he is rather rude to _everyone._

Merlin knows, he has been rude to _her._

She hardly thinks that makes him worth a conversation such as this one –

A _serious_ conversation, if the look on Viktor’s face is anything to go by.  

“I do not like ze way he looks at you.”

Hermione pauses, studying Viktor.

 _That_ , she wasn’t expecting.

“The way he looks at me?” she repeats blankly.

“’Ermiown-ninny,” Viktor turns, hands gripping hers, and his eyes when they meet her own are wide, earnest. “If ever you do not vant me anymore, I vill try to understand, and I hope ve vill be friends, still. But even if ve vere only friends, I vould say zat I do not like ze way this man looks at you. A Professor should _never_ be zis way with a student. It eez- how you say- _manipulative_.”

“Manipulative?”

Hermione almost wants to laugh.

Merlin, if Viktor knew the things Riddle had accused _him_ of, only a _week_ ago.

She tries not to look too amused.

“I don’t- I’m sorry, Viktor, I just don’t know what you _mean_.”

Viktor looks at her, incredulous.

“Ermiown-ninny,” he says seriously, “Your Professor looks at you ze way _I_ looked at you, vhen I saw you at ze table- vhen I put my name in ze Goblet of Fire. He did at ze Ball – and again, yesterday. He vas not liking _me_ vith you, either. Don’t you see?”

Hermione draws in a breath, thinking for a moment, and she tries to tell herself that her heart is _only_ racing on account of the fact that Viktor is expressing some manner of jealousy, and not because-

Not because –

Besides, he is so spectacularly _wrong_.

Because she is a sixth year student with too much hair and too many opinions.

She’s more a _thorn_ in Professor Riddle’s side in class than anything else, and outside, she’s _worse_.

Outside, she’s _debatably_ an idiot as far as he is concerned, and a _clumsy_ one at that.

That much is _crystal_ clear from the way he _looks_ at her.

Of course, there have been occasions- a handful, she supposes- that have felt different.

Moments when he has met her gaze, and she has found herself suddenly _light-headed_ , peculiarly _aware_ of the fullness of his mouth, the warm of his breath, the way he _smells_ -

But he looks at _everybody_ that way, even _Lavender Brown,_ and if Hermione is certain of anything it is that Riddle _loathes_ that girl fiercely.  

It is only his eyes.

“Oh, Viktor, I don’t- you can’t mean- Professor Riddle is _not-_ ” she says hastily -  

“Interested in you,” Viktor finishes, surveying her flushed expression and wearing a rather dull one of his own. “But he is.”

“He isn’t,” Hermione says hotly. “At all. I can unequivocally _assure_ you of that. Besides, he is a _professional._ He would _never-_ ”

Viktor puts his hands up, palms facing her.

“Ermi-own-ninny,” he says. “I am not here to fight vith you. I only vant to tell you to be careful. Professor Riddle is a teacher, and older than you-”

“ _You’re_ older than me,” Hermione points out, though she’s not sure what possesses her to do it.

Viktor’s mouth sours, and for a moment, there is only silence between them, tempered by the howl of the wind, rippling across the surface of the Lake.

“It is cold,” he says gruffly. “Perhaps ve should return to ze castle. I am sure you have much studying to do.”

She _feels_ his words like a slap across the face.

Hermione pauses.

He isn’t content, it’s plain, with the way this has all gone.

But her muscles still ache from her ordeal the day before, and she is too surprised, too furious, amused, to navigate a useful resolution of this mess now.

“Yes,” she says, in the end. “A fair bit, actually.”

By the time they have reached the castle, her hand is chilly, fingers no longer laced through his.

Hermione does not remember who let go first.

* * *

 

Harry is in a graveyard.

A fairly dismal one at that.

There are crosses embedded half-heartedly in the earth, great stones lopsided, the names of the deceased they commemorate erased by the mere passage of time, and Harry _squints_ to read them in the dark.

One grave, of course, is distinctly more impressive.

There is a statue towering over the stone itself – a figure, hooded, staff in hand – _death_ , Harry knows it _instinctively_ , and more pressing than his alarmed, stuttering heart is the prickling sensation that flames across the length of his scar, _shouting_ at him, a _warning_ , and he bends, tries to read the _name_ carved into the figure’s grey stone tablet, the person whose death is forever _marked_ in this way-  

 _Tom,_ he reads, a rather common name, of course, perhaps nobody special.

_Tom -_

Behind him, something _moves_ , and Harry whirls around, reaching for his wand – _why_ doesn’t he have his wand? – as he takes in a small stone hut, a little to the side, the orange of a fireplace gleaming through frosted windows, and his chest is sinking, and Merlin, he’s fought a _dragon_ , and still, he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this way- _helpless_ , spectacularly, terribly so.

 _Frozen_.

He can’t fucking move, legs _locked_ in place, and he knows he cannot afford to be still, not now, because _something_ is coming -  

He sees something else, now- something that does not belong here.

A Cauldron, black, pewter, and the largest Harry has ever seen, rusted over on the dry earth.

There is a sharp _click_ , somewhere in the dark, and when a fire ignites beneath it, it is the same green Harry saw Professor Riddle’s first lesson; the one that only accompanies _one_ branch of magic, like a _signature_.

His scar is _ignited_ the moment the cauldron is, and Harry can’t help but _wince_ -

And then.

And then, there’s that voice.

High, cold, _familiar_.

It only says one thing.

Only _ever_ says one thing.

“ _Harry Potter.”_

Harry is fairly certain he is screaming, now – on his _knees_ , now- and there is something else, _laughter_ -

With a sudden jerk, Harry’s eyes fly open, and he is sitting up in his bed, _drenched_ in sweat, panting, squirming-

“Alright mate?”

Harry starts, but, of course, it is only Ron- can only _be_ Ron.

The boy’s blankets are draped over him like robes as he leans over Harry, having abandoned his own bed.

His eyes are wide with concern.

“Yeah,” he pants. “Sorry- I- bad dream.”

“The same one?” Ron frowns. “With the graveyard?”

Harry only nods.

His scar is still _searing_.

Ron whistles, low under his breath.

“What is that- the fifth time this year?”

Harry shrugs nonchalantly.

He doesn’t want Ron to be worried. 

A worried Ron always gives rise to a distinctly _more_ worried Harry.

The best he can do is retain his composure; hide how shaken he feels, that after all this time, ever since the Summer, the World Cup, it is still that same yard; that same _voice_.

Ron, more’s the pity, isn’t convinced.

“I dunno, mate. Maybe something weird’s going on. We should tell Hermione.”

“No,” Harry says automatically. “She’ll think it’s something bad.”  

“It sure as hell isn’t something _good_ ,” Ron points out.  

“Or _maybe_ it’s just a stupid dream,” Harry says determinedly.

Ron hesitates.

At Harry’s look, he throws up his hands- and then drops them, very quickly, to catch his blankets before they fall down.

“Fine. But for the _record_ , I think you should just tell her. When has any situation ever been made _worse_ by bringing Hermione in on it, eh?”

Harry pauses.

Ron has a point, of course, though he never says so.

The other boy has already collapsed onto his bed and begun punctuating the silence rather liberally with snores before he has the chance.

* * *

 

“ _Harry_.”

Hermione is, predictably, furious, when, no less than a week after the fact, and four more recurring nightmares later, he opts to take Ron’s advice and tell Hermione about them.

Harry winces as she knocks his arm with the deceptively heavy book she’s been studying intently since taking a seat by the Common Room fire this morning, face truly terrifying, even in its warm light.

“Why on _earth_ didn’t you tell me?”

“I dunno! I mean, they’re just _nightmares_. It’s still probably nothing. I didn’t want to worry you, I ‘spose.”

“You said your _scar_ was hurting,” she glowers. “That isn’t ‘ _probably nothing’_. Harry, this could be really bad.”

“Thanks,” he says mildly. “Blimey, I think I felt better _before_ I told you.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean-” Hermione places a hand on his knee. “I’m just saying, you should have told me _sooner_. But we’ll figure it out, Harry. There’s a whole _section_ of the library simply _dedicated_ to dreams. Only – I _had_ meant to start studying for Transfiguration, the exam is _three_ weeks from now, and McGonagall did warn against late starts in revising, but no matter, of course- we’ll go up after lunch, before Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“Three weeks?” Harry says, incredulous.

Hermione gives him a sour look by way of response, and he sighs.

“Sorry. Look, Hermione, don’t worry about it. Really. Don’t let _this_ interfere with your plans.”

A twinge of guilt tugs at his chest.

It’s not escaped his attention that Hermione has spent the better half of the year in the library, not because of classes, but, this time, because of _him –_ this absolute nuisance of a Tournament, and now, apparently, because he had a bad dream and had the poor judgment to tell her about it.

As it is, she’s already been _on_ him about the third task next week.

Harry has been doing is best to ignore it, of course, which is difficult when his best friends and his – and _Cedric_ seem unable to talk about anything else, speculating, agonising over what it might be, this final trial, this test of their minds, bodies, magic.

“You could bloody _win_ this, Harry,” Ron keeps saying, and, he supposes, technically, it is true.

Harry doesn’t know how it’s happened, but somehow, he’s found himself tied for first place with Cedric, Krum close behind and Fleur trailing after him, courtesy of her run-in with the grindylows in the Lake.

Hermione has been hypothesising as to what it might be on the basis of old Tournaments. A puzzle is her latest guess, some test of wit, intellect. In 1784, a life-size game of Wizard’s Chess had proved the final hurdle, something that Ron is particularly smug about, given his own first year accomplishments in that particular arena.

Now, he’s gone and added his daft dreams to her list of things to tear her hair out over.

“Don’t be silly,” Hermione says briskly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got something to attend to.”

Before Harry can say a further word, she has gathered her robes and abandoned her seat, quill in one hand and parchment in the other as she marches for the door, flinging the Fat Lady closed behind her, passing Dean on his way in.

He glances over his shoulder at her, perplexed.

“Where’s _she_ off to, then?” he remarks.

Harry only shakes his head.

“No idea.”

* * *

 

Hermione is late to Defence Against the Dark Arts.

It doesn’t help that she is flustered, the strap of her satchel sliding down her shoulder, books half-open inside, hair coming undone from its clasp and rather adorned with white and grey feathers from the owlery, and stomach loudly protesting at the fact she skipped lunch.

She swallows hard when she meets Professor Riddle’s gaze, readying herself for the reprimand, but it never comes.

His eyes merely graze over her, lip curling upward at her rather chaotic state, and he gestures for her to take up her seat.

“Granger,” he says simply, “Miss Patil has asked why Legilimency may fall into the category of the ‘dark arts’, and Occlumency into that of ‘defence _against_ the dark arts’. Perhaps you can assist?”

Hermione, relieved, nods as she sits down, ignoring Harry’s inquisitive look.

“Of course, Sir. Legilimency can be construed as a _dark_ art because it constitutes an absolute v _iolation_ of a person’s autonomy and free will. To look into someone’s mind is so _contrary_ to basic decency, of course. It is analogous to _Imperio_ in that regard. The only reason it’s _not_ one of the Unforgiveables is because with proper consent, Legilimency _isn’t_ dark _per se_. It’s actually quite useful to Aurors in the field to be able to read each other’s thoughts. It is probably best construed as _neutral_ magic with the _capacity_ to be _used_ in a way that is dark, or in a way that is light. The most powerful dark witches and wizards all used Legilimency, though, and it is best known for its association with _them_.”

She is out of breath by the time she finishes, and Ron, out of the corner of her eye, looks distinctly impressed.

Professor Riddle inclines his head, and the _bright_ of his eyes lets her know that he is satisfied with her answer.

“Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger. And Occlumency?”

“Occlumency is Legilimency’s counterpart,” she says with a shrug. “Its entire purpose is to defend oneself against the exercise of Legilimency.”

“Marvellous.”

Riddle turns to the front of the room, and, with his wand, begins sketching something into the air, constructing letters out of what looks to be _fire,_ crackling and suspended in front of them.

_Beautiful._

Hermione breathes in slow, mesmerised with the enchanted letters, following his every jerk of the wand, until Harry catches her attention.

“ _Where have you been?”_ he mutters, Ron leaning in to listen.

Hermione opens her mouth to answer, but, at a glance at Professor Riddle, back still turned and launching into some lecture about why it is that Legilimency is _particularly_ difficult to master, but Occlumency harder still, she takes up her quill instead, scrawling hastily across the parchment before her and tearing it off, gently as she can manage, to pass to Harry.

_Meet me by the fire at midnight and I’ll explain._

She glances over his expression as he reads it, brows furrowed, lips pursed.

Swallowing, Harry nods.

* * *

 

Of late, Harry and Hermione have resumed their routine of hanging back after Defence Against the Dark Arts, and today, once they have been dismissed and their latest essays piled at Riddle’s desk, their self-esteem at his mercy for the umpteenth time, is no exception.

What _is_ rather exceptional is the fact that ever since the Yule Ball, _Ron_ has taken to joining them.

It is an odd thing to behold, Hermione thinks, though she cannot say she isn’t rather delighted by it.

 _Ron Weasley,_ lingering after class to speak to his favourite teacher.

She feels almost proud.

Still, for Hermione, it is not as comfortable as it once was.

Since the Yule Ball, it simply _hasn’t_ been; though, after the second task – after his hands, hovering over her, breathing _warmth_ into her; palm steady on her back, guiding her back to the castle - they have come to something of an amicable truce.

“Cool lesson, Sir,” Ron says, eager, it seems, to flatter the Professor.

“I appreciate that assessment, Mr Weasley,” Riddle says, amused by the compliment if nothing else.

“Can _you_ do Legilimency, then?” Ron asks, intrigued.

“I’d be poorly placed to teach you to fight it were I not able to perform it, wouldn’t I?”

“ _Wicked_.”

It is possible, Hermione thinks, that Ron is more in love with Professor Riddle now than Lavender had ever been.

 “You can perform Occlumency as well then?” Hermione says, impressed to the point that it is futile to hide it.

She’s read about them both, extensively, of course, and though she’d never imagine trying to perform Legilimency, she _has_ tried her hand at Occlumency – tried thinking of _nothing_ but a wall of brick, so that there would be nothing else to be gained from any intruder in her mind.

Suffice to say it did not _last_ very long.

“Unsuccessful as yet, Miss Granger?” Riddle inquires. Then, at her look, “I assume you’ve attempted it.”

“I have,” Hermione admits, albeit reluctantly. “I found it rather- well-”

“Boring?” Professor Riddle suggests, eyes glinting.

“Just so, Sir.”

“That is the thing about active minds,” Riddle muses. “They rather take issue with being stagnant.”

_Active minds._

Hermione bites her lip, sorely tempted, suddenly, to simply _ask_ Professor Riddle about what he said at the Yule Ball, to tell her, _definitively_ , whether he thought she was clever or an idiot, that she can finally _know_ -

“I dunno,” Harry says wistfully. “A stagnant brain sounds pretty good to me.”

Professor Riddle raises his eyebrows.

“Nervous about the third task?”

“Ignoring the third task,” Harry corrects him.

Riddle snorts, not _quite_ a laugh.

“Well, it won’t do to ignore it. Besides, you’re practically assured a respectable result, Potter.”

“Yeah, Mr _Moral Fibre_ ,” Ron sneers.

Of course, Hermione knows that Harry’s nerves have little to do with his fears of not attaining a _respectable result,_ and more to do with a graveyard, a cauldron, green inferno, a stone with a name, one Harry could never quite make out –

“Any hints on this one, Professor?” Harry asks, rather blatantly, now, and Riddle does not chastise him.

It seems that finally, they are beyond pretending that Riddle is anything less than coaching Harry through the Triwizard Tournament.

“Keep a clear head and you’ll be fine,” Riddle says easily. “A panicked mind will be your worst enemy this time, Potter.”

“It’s a mental puzzle, isn’t it?” Hermione suggests, eager to share her ideas despite herself.

“Of sorts,” Riddle allows. “But then, that would be telling.”

Ron grins widely at that, and he opens his mouth to say something – probably, Hermione muses, in an effort to crawl further up Professor Riddle’s –

“Ermiown-ninny.”

Viktor’s voice, unexpected and at the still-open door, has Hermione whipping her head around, lips parted in surprise.

“ _Oh_.”

After all, it has been a while since she has seen Viktor Krum at all.

Since that day by the Lake, the things he’d said – about _Riddle_ no less – she’d simply made no attempt to reach him again.

But then, if Hermione really thinks of it, she supposes that isn’t anything new.

It was only ever Viktor who sought _her_ out.

This time, though, he hadn’t.

Until now.

In her classroom, it seems, and wearing quite the _hurt_ expression.

Ron, who, it seems, now has _two_ heroes to fawn over at once, is oblivious to her discomfort.

“Alright _Viktor_ ,” he grins, relishing in being on first name basis with the Quidditch legend. “Good to see you.”

“And you, Ronaldo,” Viktor says, though his eyes only seem to concern themselves with Hermione – and Professor Riddle.

Her chest s _tutters_ at the memory of what he said to her, the allegation he put against her Professor, how she most certainly did _not_ wish it might have some grain of truth to it-

“I apologise, _Professor_ ,” he continues, voice rather sharp. “I believed class vas over.”

“It is,” Riddle’s smile is thin. “And so Potter and Weasley are quite free to join you. I require Miss Granger, however, for another moment, if you don’t mind.”

Viktor’s thick brows draw _in_ at that, mouth pressed into a tight line.

Even Hermione turns to him, somewhat surprised.

“You were _late_ , Granger,” Riddle reminds her. “I _do_ require an explanation, you know.”

Hermione flushes.

 “ _C’mon_ , Professor,” Ron says breezily. “It’s _Hermione_. You _know_ what the explanation is. She was in the library or whatever and lost track of time like the nerd she is.”

Hermione shoots him a glare at that, though she can’t say he’s _entirely_ wrong in his assessment of excuse.

“And _if_ that is the case, I expect Miss Granger to tell me _why_ that rendered her late to my class,” Riddle says smoothly.

“Of course Sir,” Hermione says at once.

Riddle is all charm when he nods back to Krum, as though to say ‘ _see?_ ’.

Krum’s eyes are very dark when they meet his.

He does not look at Hermione, and it has her feeling rather uneasy.

“I vill wait.”

“Yeah,” Ron says. “We’ll all wait – on the Quidditch pitch, yeah? Maybe we can go a few rounds with the hoops while we’re down, hey Viktor?”

“I am sure Ermiown-ninny vill not take so long,” Viktor frowns.

“I do sort of fancy a fly,” Harry admits. “I’d love it if you could give me a few pointers. You’re right to meet us down there, aren’t you Hermione?”

Eager to bring an end to this rather painful interaction, Hermione nods enthusiastically.

“Of course, yes!”

Ron claps his hands together; a done deal.

“Brilliant,” he beams. “C’mon, Viktor! Take it easy on her, won’t you, Sir?”

Ron is already bounding towards the door, dragging Harry along behind him by the wrist and clapping his free hand across Viktor’s back in greeting.

“I make no promises, Mr Weasley,” Riddle says, with a _look_ that sends a nervous stutter to Hermione’s chest. “See to it that you close the door on your way out, won’t you?”

As Ron obeys, Hermione only sees Viktor’s face.

His eyes are wide and his eyebrows up: annoyed, yes, but _concerned_ , more than that. 

With a harsh _clap,_ her friends are gone.

* * *

 

“Let me guess,” Professor Riddle says, before Hermione can begin to apologise profusely, “you were investigating the final task for Potter in the library and, as Mr Weasley suggested, you lost track of time?”

Hermione swallows.

Part of her is minded to tell him about Harry’s dream – what she had _really_ been looking into -  though of course, it is nothing to _do_ with the Tournament.

It feels more pressing than that, somehow, though Hermione can’t say precisely _why_ she feels it so strongly.

Still, a dream feels personal, somehow.

Something that isn’t _hers_ to share.

So she only nods, sheepish.

“I am _ever_ so sorry, Sir,” she says in earnest. “I confess, I’ve been unable to concentrate on much else.”

“If only Potter shared your dedication to his own cause,” Riddle muses.

He has moved to stand behind his desk now, and he is ruffling through the essays scattered across it, forming a neat pile in the centre as he speaks.

“You’re not – angry, Professor?” she says tentatively.

“I certainly would be,” he says reasonably, “were your absence curtailing your capacity to learn. But you showed today that it isn’t, so no, Miss Granger, I am not _angry_.”

“Oh,” she sighs, relieved. “Oh, thank you, Professor.”

He does not answer, and so she surveys him.

It feels safe to do so, now that he is not looking at _her._

His hair casts a shadow across his angular cheekbones as he leans over, and his lashes are enviably _long_ and thick.

She does not know where she stands with him, she realises, and that, _that,_ is surely why she finds herself infuriatingly bothered by the things he says.

Hermione is _used_ to being admired by her Professors, and she is _used_ to being detested by them – Professor Snape has single-handedly seen to that.

But Professor Riddle –

Merlin, she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to place him.

“It’s rather distracting, you know, when you look at me like that.”

Hermione jolts.

He isn’t looking at her when he says it, eyes still trained on the scrolls of parchment and blotched essays he’s shuffling through.

She pauses, lips parted, and she when she draws in her next breath it is s _harp._

“Look at you?”

“Indeed,” Professor Riddle’s voice is smooth- _frustratingly_ so, because Hermione can’t imagine mustering the composure to respond in kind to what he implies – what he _says -_ next.

“As though you want me.”

Hermione _freezes_ , and every embarrassing thing that has ever happened to her, every flicker of self-consciousness she has e _ver_ felt, is _outdone_ in this one moment.

 Blood is _rushing_ in its haste to reach her cheeks, even as her heart stutters.

She is –

Caught out.

 _Guilty_ \- which is ridiculous, nonsensical, because of course, _of course,_ she d _oesn’t_ – look at him like _that_ , feel about him like _that_ \- and what on ea _rth_ does he mean by it, and why is he just _standing_ there, sorting through his _papers,_ perfectly natural even as he goes and says something as impossible, as preposterous,  as _that?_

She swallows.

She has _heard_ him wrong, of course.

She has only heard him wrong.

Yes, that would explain it.

It is the only thing that _can_ , and so it must be the truth.

With a racing heart, she clears her throat.

“Excuse me, Professor? I- I didn’t catch that.”

“Mm,” Riddle muses, and Hermione has to clench the muscles in her legs _tight_ to stop them from _trembling_ when he finally looks up, something positively _dangerous_ in his eyes that sends some manner of current, of magic, surging through her veins, _breathing_ pink into her cheeks.

“I think you did, Granger. I don’t think you miss much, and I _certainly_ don’t think you missed that. I think you’re a _ppalled,_ though, that I would see fit to say it. After all, you _don’t_ , do you?”

His eyes flick over her face slowly, _painfully_ so.

“ _Want_ me, I mean. That would be – improper.”

“Professor-”

Hermione’s throat is painfully dry.

“And you are nothing if not _proper,_ isn’t that right, Granger?”

His voice is anything but smooth, now.

It is _hard_ , uneven, deeper than Hermione has ever heard it, and his hair has fallen over his eyes, but he doesn’t brush it away.

When he moves, it is only to take a _step_ towards her- and Merlin, he _barely_ moves, but Hermione is on edge and it sets her chest on _fire_ and she can’t help herself, she steps back, and her spine meets the desk’s edge with a dull thud, leaving her nowhere, now -

“You’re my Professor,” she says, low in her throat.

It is all she can think to say.

She is still _dazed_ , and in her head, she only hears his voice- _his_ voice, saying those words over and over again, and the way he is looking at her now isn’t helping matters –

The way _he_ is looking at _her_.

She thinks of what Viktor said.

She thinks of how ludicrous it had been.

She wonders if she was wrong.

She _doesn’t_ hope, though.

Merlin, she can't _hope_ for _that._

“That’s right,” he says, voice _rudely_ husky. “And so you would never think of it, would you? You certainly wouldn’t _mean_ to. But Viktor Krum thinks you do. It’s why he so _despises_ me, isn’t it?”

Hermione wants to cut him off.

Wants to tell him he’s wrong.

She can’t-

Merlin, she can’t _move_.

Riddle’s tongue wets his lips, almost _absent-mindedly_ , and his voice is _intolerably_ inviting when he goes on.

“But he’s _wrong_ , isn’t he, Granger? Tell me that he’s wrong.”

“ _Of course_ he is,” Hermione says, finding, not a moment too soon, her voice, though it is admittedly little more than a croak at this point.

“But that’s – it’s _ridiculous,_ Sir, and besides, Viktor _doesn’t_ – he _knows-”_

“Mm,” Riddle murmurs, and he is closer, somehow, though she can’t recall him taking another step, and perhaps- yes, perhaps _she_ has leaned forward, into _him_ , and he smells like fresh parchment, like tea- “does he?”

When she exhales, it is _staggered,_ uneven, and before she can even try for composure, the very tips of his fingers are tracing over her hair, inexplicably gentle, and the way Riddle’s lip quirks up is perfectly _wayward_.

“Better yet,” he says, and Hermione closes her eyes, because Merlin, she doesn’t know what she’ll do if she has to look at _him_ for another _second_ , “Why don’t you tell me _this_ , Granger.”

Hermione swallows, breath quickens-

Riddle’s voice drops.

“If you were researching the third task in the library before class, _why_ does the state of your hair tell me you were _really_ in the owlery?”

In an instant, he has let go of her, stepping back and producing a feather for her inspection, and it is as though a spell has been _broken._

 Hermione is only left stunned _, reeling,_ some hollow feeling _low_ in her gut.

“I-” she says, rather stupidly, but Professor Riddle cuts her off, clinical, business-like, in an _instant_.

“ _Next_ time, you will refrain from lying to me about the reason for your late arrival, or you _will_ serve detention, Miss Granger. Is that understood?”

Hermione blinks, incredulous, _dazed_ , and above all else, _embarrassed_ at how profoundly _disappointed_ she found herself feeling the moment he stepped away.

“Understood? Professor, you- you _can’t_ just-”

Can’t just _say_ what he just _said_.

Can’t just _look_ at her like that, _talk_ to her like that, voice like _velvet_ like that, only to go back to _this_ in five seconds flat.

“But I can,” he smiles, and it is _impossible_ to read. “I am your _Professor_ after all. Don’t you know it is improper to _lie_ to your teachers?”

“I didn’t _lie_ ,” Hermione says hotly, hand flying to brush the offending feathers from her head, but he raises a finger, silencing her.

“You’re _dismissed_ , Granger,” he says simply. “See to it that you are on time tomorrow.”

For a moment, Hermione only looks at him, and if she were in any sort of coherent state, she is certain she would have s _cowled._

But she isn’t.

Won’t be, she expects, for quite some time.

So she doesn’t wait to be told twice.

* * *

 

To their credit, Harry and Ron took heed of her note, meeting her promptly by the fire at midnight, each sporting an inquisitive look.

To her immense relief, they don’t ask her why she never found them after speaking with Professor Riddle – the answer, of course, had been that she had simply locked herself in a cubicle, flustered and bewildered beyond belief- and had been in no mood to encounter Viktor with them on the Quidditch Pitch.

“What’s all this, Mione?” Harry says, curious.

Hermione glances around them, throws a _muffliato_ over her shoulder for good measure, that they will not be overheard.

The Common Room is mercifully, albeit eerily, empty aside from the three of them, gathered in thick pyjamas by the steady flames.

“When you told me about the dream, I knew we needed a second opinion,” Hermione whispers. “So- I _know_ it was risky, but I cast protective charms on _all_ the letters, _and_ the owl and- well, I wrote to Sirius.”

Harry blinks.

“You wrote to _Sirius_?” Ron repeats. “Black?  Merlin, How? The bloke doesn’t very well have a known _address_ , does he?”  

Harry, ever protective of his godfather on the run, of course, for a series of murders that Peter Pettigrew committed, is suddenly _furious_.

“Hermione, _tell_ me you didn’t try to get him to meet us here. He’ll get _caught_.”

“Of course not,” she says, resentful. “Well- not precisely, anyway.”

“What did you do, then?” Harry demands.

Hermione sighs, but, as though on cue, she is saved from having to explain herself by an abrupt cough coming squarely from the embers of the fire.

Hermione inhales sharply.

She knew it was possible, of course, when she arranged it, but there is something rather wondrous about the way that the glowing ashes, the kindling, are somehow blending together, _carving_ themselves into the _exact_ form of Sirius Black’s face.

“ _Sirius?”_

Harry is on his knees at once, leaning as far into the fire as he can without falling in himself.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here? It’s too dangerous.”

He shoots a glare over his shoulder at Hermione, who simply raises her eyebrows back at him.

“ _Don’t be ridiculous. This is important. Besides, what’s life without a little risk?”_ the embers say, uncannily, in Sirius’ easy voice, though he sounds musty, somehow, the flames still _crackling_ under his words. “ _You’re looking well – pleased to see the abhorrent hair runs in the family.”_

“You’re one to talk,” Ron says, grinning tentatively into the fireplace. “It’s good to see you, Sirius.”

“ _And you, Ron, Hermione.”_ Sirius nods to her over Harry’s shoulder. _“Thank you for contacting me. At least one of you had the sense to.”_

He gives Harry a pointed look, which, thanks to the angry-red of the fire, comes across rather menacing indeed.

“Sirius,  you really don’t have to worry,” Harry says hastily. “It’s just a dream.”

“ _I wouldn’t be so sure of that,”_ Sirius says, voice heavy. “ _What you heard- that voice. It was Him, wasn’t it? You Know Who.”_

Hermione flinches at the sound of it, though Harry doesn’t.

His voice is flat when he replies.

“Yeah.”

Sirius inhales deeply, thinking.

“ _There are whispers, outside of Hogwarts, even  outside of the papers, that You Know Who is gaining strength. That he may return. There have been disappearances- things that only meant one thing – when he came to power the first time.”_

“Disappearances?” Hermione leans in, heart racing. “Like Mr Olivander, do you mean?”

“What?” Ron says, startled.

“The _Prophet_ reported it,” she says, glancing back at Sirius’s image in the flames, brow furrowed. “They say he closed his shop and left Diagon Alley. But I can’t think _why_ he would do that.”

Sirius nods gravely, ash shifting under his chin.

“ _They don’t want us to be alarmed, of course. Nobody wants it to mean anything. But your dreams, Harry-”_

“But they’re just dreams,” Harry says, hasty, almost _desperate._ “I’ve never been to that graveyard, I’ve got no _clue_ where it is. And I never actually _see_ Him.”

“ _Even so,”_ Sirius says. “ _You best be cautious, Harry. Because the monsters are inside the walls, now.”_

“Monsters?” Ron says.

“ _Death Eaters. There, at Hogwarts. Igor Karkaroff- he was a Death Eater. And no one,_ no one, _stops being a Death Eater.”_

Hermione swallows, eyes sharp.

“ _Karkaroff_?” she says, astounded. “But- he’s Headmaster of Durmstrang. _Dumbledore_ invited him for the Triwizard Tournament.”

“ _A Tournament meant only to have three Champions. And you swear, Harry, that you did not nominate  yourself for it?”_ Sirius says, _urgently_ , as though his life depends on it.

It occurs to Hermione that perhaps Harry’s does.

The muscles in Harry’s throat are working, now.

“What are you saying?” he shakes his head.  

“ _I’m_ saying _that somebody put you in this Tournament, Harry, and whoever did it is not a friend to you.”_

The warning hits Hermione’s chest _painfully,_ pulse racing.

“But he’s tied for first,” Ron says, perplexed. “He’s come out _fine_ the first two tasks.”

“ _Leaving his nominator with_ one _last chance,”_ Sirius says. “ _Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”_

“You think Karkaroff nominated Harry,” Hermione says, voice hollow as her chest at this moment as it dawns on her, as she _kicks_ herself for being so spectacularly _stupid_ as to forget it- the fact that they still _don’t know_ who did it, _never knew,_ “you think he’s working for You Know Who.”

“ _That’s exactly what I think.”_

Behind them, the stairs creak, and Hermione snaps around, searching for a figure in the dark, though she sees no one.

“You’ve got to go,” Harry says. “Sirius, if anyone sees you-”

“ _I know,”_ Sirius says, impatient. “ _I know the risk. But_ you _have to know the risk that_ you _are taking, Harry, when you walk into this next task. Trust no one- least of all Karkaroff’s Champion.”_

“Viktor Krum?” Ron says, incredulous, and Hermione _winces_ , because _god,_ he can’t be.

Because _even if_ he meant to use her, _even if_ he wanted to win, he wasn’t, he _couldn’t_ be–

_Death Eater._

A shiver is born at her neck and travels down her spine, _prickling_ her nerves.

 _“My connection is fading,”_ Sirius says, and, sure enough, his features in the flames are melting, somehow, falling apart, his rather handsome features no longer apparent on the surface of the fireplace. “ _Take care, won’t you?”_

Either for lack of notice, or lack of capacity, not one of them manages to respond in time.

With a low groan, Sirius is gone.

The fire is only a fire, and they are only fools, crowded around it on their knees as though it will tell them the future.

Hermione lets out a staggered breath, _overwhelmed_ , hoping, desperately, so _terribly_ desperately, that Sirius is wrong.

Feeling, somewhere deep in her chest, that he _isn’t_.

_Death Eater._

“Well,” Ron says, breaking the tense silence that has taken hold of them. “Fuck.”

Any other night, Hermione might scold his choice of words.

But, as it happens, she can’t think of anything that might better reflect exactly how colossally _screwed_ they are now.

“Well fuck indeed.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm alive!
> 
> I am so terribly sorry about the super delayed update. Things went from 'kinda busy' to 'alarmingly busy' and I genuinely had no time spare at all for a while there. I am equally apologetic about the fact that I've not responded to your lovely and thought-provoking comments on the last chapter. I read them and appreciate them so much, but I wanted to dignify them with proper responses and I never quite got the chance to. 
> 
> The good news is, things have calmed down a bit now, so it shouldn't be anywhere near as long a wait for the next chapter (which I am rather excited about!). We're slowly but surely getting to the exciting bit of the plot! 
> 
> I really hope this chapter is somewhat worth the lengthy wait, and I am eager to hear what you think of it! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading - it is good to be back!


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Hogwarts is holding its breath today.

The Halls, corridors, classrooms, are _eerily_ quiet; the Portraits hushed; the ordinarily ever so _excitable_ First Years sombre, tense.

They are waiting out the clock, all of them.

Waiting for today to become yesterday, and tomorrow to become the here and now, because _tomorrow_ , of course, _tomorrow_ , sees the Triwizard Tournament _end._

_Tomorrow_ , the Champions face their third and final task.

Exactly what that task will be is anyone’s guess.

There have been no _clues_ this time, no riddles to solve, though naturally there has been no shortage of gossip, rumour, surrounding the obstacles that are to meet them.

Perhaps that is why they hold their breath: because it is all that is left to do, now.

Hermione, of course, has been holding _hers_ for longer: ever since Sirius crumbled into ash and embers in the Gryffindor Common Room last week, leaving them only with a warning, and a name.

_Igor Karkaroff, Death Eater_.

It doesn’t seem to make any sort of sense.

After all, he had been so _furious,_ when the Goblet of Fire had spat Harry’s name out, rendering him the fourth and final champion in a competition meant only for three.

Displeased, too, when Viktor had taken a liking to her.

Never-mind the fact that he is _Headmaster_ of Durmstrang.

But it _is_ true.

She knows that, now.

Hermione found the proof she had _dreaded_ , had hoped against _hope_ did not exist at all, in the library, shelves deep into the records of the Death Eaters’ trials before the Council of Magical Law.  

Upon You Know Who’s instruction, and of course, he insisted, _always insisted_ , that it was only _ever_ upon his instruction, a younger Karkaroff had done Unforgiveable things.

Had killed, tortured; mostly Muggles, of course, and a handful of Muggleborns, because they had to be _punished_ for their inferiority – their _dirty blood_ , and so it was easier. Justifiable, even. It is acceptable to kill an insect; its existence is fleeting, fragile, as it is. It is acceptable to kill an animal; its sentience is limited, anyway, it won’t feel all that much pain, it does not understand what it stands to lose. It is acceptable, too, so the Death Eaters believed, to kill a Muggle, a _Mudblood_. They are wasted space; wasted _potential_ , birds without wings, as it were.

 An Auror called Mad-Eye Moody had been the one to find him, in the end; to deliver him on his _knees_ and in chains to the Dementors of Azkaban, for life- or, so it was _supposed_ to be.

As fortune would have it, the Council of Magical Law had seen fit to release Karkaroff after he _begged_ for leniency, cried of remorse, of atonement – after he gave them _names_.

The records Hermione inspected had redacted these names, to her immense frustration, though Ron thinks she’s rather daft for getting worked up about it.

“Who _cares_ who he ratted out to cut a better deal?” he had hissed, for the umpteenth time, over the crackling kindling of the fireplace, the night she found it; the night she told he and Harry. “Sirius was _right._ Karkaroff’s a bloody Death Eater. How the fuck did he wind up _Headmaster_? Mum’d rather home-school the lot of us than let me get taught by a convicted _torturer_ \- and- and a _fascist_.”

Hermione tried not to look too pleasantly surprised to learn that Ron knew what a ‘fascist’ was.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Harry furrowed his brow. “Sounds like Azkaban _broke_ him, or something. He sold out _everyone_ to get out. Why would he risk getting sent _back_ there by helping You Know Who now?”

“If he was afraid of him,” Hermione had suggested, and a _cold_ feeling had set in her chest as she did. “If he was _more_ afraid of You Know Who than he is of Azkaban.”

She had paused, and there was a moment, long, _lingering_ , when they wondered, the three of them.

Wondered what brand of _hell_ You Know Who could rain down upon a person to make Azkaban look like a luxury holiday resort.

“I know _I_ would be,” Ron says grimly.

Harry did not answer; only seemed to shiver.

“So, what do we do now? Tell Dumbledore?” Ron had asked after a beat, and Hermione had only sighed because _Merlin_ , if that wasn’t an _enigma_ in and of itself.

“We might have a problem there. You won’t _believe_ who was sitting on the Council, that day Karkaroff bartered for his freedom.”

Harry had only blinked.

“ _No_.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Blimey,” Ron was utterly bewildered. “You’re saying he knows?”

“He doesn’t just know, Ron,” Hermione said, and the words had felt _sour_ in her mouth. “He was the first to cast a vote to release him.”

It was gratifying, somehow, _comforting_ , that Harry and Ron looked every part as confused, betrayed, as Hermione had felt when she saw it; _his_ name, listed under the record, the _first_ to appear under the heading _‘motion for leniency granted’._

“There’s got to be some explanation,” Harry had said determinedly. “There’s no _way_ Dumbledore would let him anywhere _near_ Hogwarts if he was still loyal to Voldemort.”

Hermione had flinched at the name, could not _help_ but to, and a glance at Ron had told her that he was much the same.

“I dunno,” Ron had said, cautious. “Dumbledore seems to look for the good in everyone. What if Karkaroff’s playing him?”

“Dumbledore isn’t stupid,” Harry had retorted.

“He isn’t,” Hermione had agreed. “But- I just can’t think of _anything_ he could possibly know that would absolutely assure him that Karkaroff is changed.”

Harry hesitated, because, of course, she had a point.

“Where does that leave us, then?” he’d said, and Hermione had wished he hadn’t, because that meant having to _say_ it, admit it.

“I don’t know.”

She shifted in her seat, heart alive with _nerves_ , dread.

“We could tell Dumbledore that we think Karkaroff put Harry’s name in the Cup, but it would be risky, and we could be putting Harry in more danger if Karkaroff found out,” she went on, troubled. “Besides, we don’t have proper proof of his involvement- we only now he _used_ to be a Death Eater, and that’s public information.”

“I don’t get it,” Ron had said, exasperated. “We know this guy’s a fucking Death Eater- an Eater of _Death_ , servant of the _Dark Lord_. In what world is that not enough to prove he’s out to get Harry?”

“In a world where Dumbledore welcomed him into Hogwarts with open arms,” Hermione had said, helpless, and from there, that night, the conversation has continued, chasing itself in circles and never progressing, never deviating, until is becomes apparent, as unacceptable as it seems, that there isn’t a thing that they can do about it.

They talk about how it is futile, agonise at length over it, and they never falter from the subject.

Because faltering could very well mean talking about everything _else_.

Could mean talking about _Viktor._

And Merlin, Hermione does _not_ want to talk about that.

She _can’t_.

It makes her sick to even _think_ of it; to imagine that this _boy_ with the dark brows and the warm eyes, the one who had spun her under his arm and left her mouth tasting of firewhisky and apples at the Yule Ball, was –

What, a _Death Eater_ like Karkaroff?

An _accomplice_?

An oblivious tool for the Headmaster to wield?

Harry and Ron seem about as willing to contemplate it as she does, in that they absolutely _don’t_ seem capable of considering it at all.

Ron still _grinned_ when Viktor passed by the Gryffindor table yesterday, though this time, he did not stop.

Harry still clapped him on the back and thanked him for teaching him some trick on the Firebolt.

Hermione’s heart still stuttered at the sight of him, hopeless in her chest.

None of them said anything of it.

They dared not.

And it is painful, physically so, because even now, she only wants to _talk_ to him.

Just _ask_ him, outright.

She has this _conviction_ , ludicrous as it may seem, that he will not lie to her, if she does.

But she doesn’t – perhaps precisely because of that conviction.

Precisely _because_ she does not know if she will be able to stand to hear it if it is true.

So she avoids him.

Which has become easy, given he’s no longer terribly concerned with seeking _her_ out.

She has not seen him in the library all week, though she suspects, he had only ever gone there for _her_ , anyway- because he fancied or, or because Karkaroff told him too, of course, remains to be discovered.

Viktor is not the only one Hermione is studiously avoiding, either.

Since her last encounter with Professor Riddle, Hermione has resolved to see to it that she does not end up alone in the classroom with him again.

Not that she’s thought of it particularly often since – Merlin, at least, she has tried _terribly_ hard not to think of it – but she didn’t require a _great_ deal of reflection to come to the firm conclusion that what had happened, what he _said_ to her, was _wildly_ inappropriate.

_Wrong_ , no matter how it had _felt_ , and he had _known_ that.

He _must_ have known that.

He was wrong, of course – about her, about Viktor, although that he could ever _think_ that makes her blush.

In any case, she is _far_ too busy to concern herself with his jarring mood-swings where she is concerned.

So she is keeping her head down. She answers questions when called upon, as succinct as she can manage. She sits up straight and pays attention to the lesson, a model student as ever. But she does not _look_ at him, _refuses_ to, and when class is dismissed, Hermione makes sure that she is the very _first_ out the door.

She tells Harry and Ron that she is going to the library to try to understand Harry’s dream, and of course, because it is true, and because it is so typically _her_ , it doesn’t raise any eyebrows.

When they meet her at dinner, at the Common Room, late, they tell her of the intriguing conversations that she missed with Professor Riddle.

They tell her how clever he is, how _brilliant_.

They tell her again, now, over lunch.

“Dude saw _inside_ my brain,” Ron is saying, supremely impressed. “I asked him to _Legilimens_ me, ‘Mione. Blimey, it felt so weird- I could actually _feel_ it, and all he had to do was look at me- didn’t even have to _say_ the word. Imagine being _that_ good-”

Hermione jolts, eyes narrowing.

“What?”

“Legilimens,” Ron repeats, cheerful. “So _brilliant,_ he knew exactly what I was thinking- freaky, really.”

“I can’t believe you _asked_ him to do that,” Harry snorts. “I don’t want anyone poking around in _my_ head.”

Hermione pauses, mind positively _humming_ , now, heart _pounding_ , and Merlin, she hates to think of it, but she thinks of it now-

His eyes, dark, glinting, on hers, _bearing_ into hers, like he never means to stop –

The ease, the uninhibited _confidence_ , with which he had said it, those words that had sent her stomach twisting-

A _s though you want me._

“And all he did was _look_ at you? That shouldn’t be possible.”

Merlin, the _power_ that kind of magic would require-  

“ _Yep_.” Ron grins. “No offence to Lupin, but Riddle’s on another whole _level_.”

Hermione is not listening.

She does not think she is capable of it, now.

Her ears are _ringing,_ some _deep_ anger _simmering_ in her chest, mind in _overdrive_ because Merlin, of course, _of course_ , it is the only thing that can _possibly_ explain it-

Explain the way he said the words even as she _thought_ them-

That she was _appalled_ that he saw fit to say it.

That it was _improper_ , that _she_ was _nothing_ if not proper.

That she would never think of it, never _mean_ to.

It is _appalling_ , of course, to use Legilimency unauthorised.

Impolite at best, _improper_ as _anything_ , and a crime punishable by imprisonment at _worst_.

But goodness, if anybody is capable of _that_ , it is him.

Because he showed them the Unforgiveable Curses, cast them as though it was nothing.

Because he gave Draco Malfoy excellent marks despite saying, knowing, that he did not deserve them.

Because he is breaking every protocol and code of conduct there is, helping Harry through this Tournament.

Because he told her she looked exquisite, that it was only _polite_ to do so.

Because he is this _impossible, infuriating_ Professor who has _dangled_ the prospect of his _approval_ in front of her like a bone before a _dog,_ knowing full _well_ he would never give it, because-

_Because_ -

Merlin, she still doesn’t _know_ , and it is _insufferable,_ and _he_ is insufferable.

And if he thinks that he can turn his Legilimency on _her_ and have her applauding for him, _doting_ on him, like Ronald, he has another _damn_ thing coming.

* * *

 

“Say it again,” Cedric says, and Harry tries hard to retain his ‘patient, understanding’ face.

He has an hour spare between lunch and Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Cedric is leaned back into the great cedar tree in the courtyard.

The sunlight, rare, _welcome_ , as it is, shows Harry the _red_ in his hair, the light blond, the hints of green in his eyes. He doesn’t know how he’d missed them before.

He sits in front of Cedric, legs sprawled on either side of his, though their knees are touching, if only just.  

He swallows.

“I didn’t put my name in the Goblet of Fire,” he repeats, clear, smooth, and he trains his eyes solely on Cedric’s, willing him, _begging_ him, to see that he isn’t lying.

Slowly, _wonderfully_ , the other boy nods.

“Okay,” he says at last, voice low, soft. “I believe you.”

Harry closes his eyes, breathing in, long and slow.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” Cedric says, and he means it, it’s clear in the way his brows are furrowed, face is _open_. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you sooner.”

Harry shrugs.

“Not even Ron believed me at first.”

Cedric shakes his head.

“That doesn’t mean _I_ shouldn’t have.”

His hand is on Harry’s knee, now.

“You didn’t know me,” Harry says simply. “You only thought what everyone did. Honestly, _I_ probably would’ve thought I’d done it.”

“It’s hard to think anyone would volunteer for this contest now,” Cedric admits, and Harry leans in, curious.

“Why’d you put your name in, then?” he asks. “I never knew.”

Cedric grins, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Ah, that,” he shakes his head. “I don’t know, truth be told. Dad really wanted me to enter. He didn’t really do competitions when he was at Hogwarts- never played Quidditch or anything like that. He was so _proud_ when I made the team.” He shrugs. “I figured he’d be over the moon if I managed to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Besides, I thought it would be a good challenge.”

Harry laughs without much humour.

“You were spot on about that.”

“Wish I wasn’t,” Cedric murmurs. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

Harry sighs heavily.

_Tomorrow._

Ron and Hermione won’t _stop_ talking about tomorrow, and it makes _sense_ , of course, he can hardly _blame_ them for it, but Merlin, he wishes they would.

Because he feels _sick_ ; has _felt_ sick ever since they spoke to Sirius that night.

Ever since Hermione found out that what he’d said was true.

Ever since he found out that Igor Karkaroff probably _definitely_ put his name in the Goblet of Fire, and he is about to feel the _force_ of why, and it would do him no _good_ to go to Dumbledore, or anyone.

He hesitates, eyes grazing over the boy beside him.

Because Cedric doesn’t know any of it, yet.

But Harry rather wants him to.

At least, he thinks he does.

Every time he has gone to say it, he’s found his throat dry, words decidedly absent.

Because ‘ _the Headmaster of Durmstrang is a Death Eater and Dumbledore knows, but doesn’t think it’s a big deal, and now he’s put my name in the Goblet of Fire because Voldemort, the not-quite-as-dead-as-he-ought-to-be Dark wizard, is out there, still, telling him to_ ’ sounds, objectively, nuts.

A tad harder to swallow than a mere ‘ _I didn’t put my name in the Goblet of Fire’_ , and _that_ , Cedric is only _now_ beginning to believe in earnest.

“Is something the matter?”

Cedric’s voice breaks Harry out of his reverie, and he blinks, taking in the boy’s easy grin, wide, inquisitive eyes.

“No,” he says hastily.

“Alright,” Cedric says. “You were looking at me, is all.”

“Oh,” Harry flushes. “I- uh, sorry.”

Cedric’s grin turns rather bright, now.

“Don’t be _sorry_ ,” he chuckles. “I swear, Harry, sometimes I only feel _sane_ when you look at me anymore. This Tournament is doing my head in.”

Harry _chokes_ , and he absolutely under _no_ circumstances can tolerate any degree of eye contact with Cedric now, because Merlin, what _is_ it that he’s just said, what is it that it _means_?

“What?” he says, voice painfully _small_.

“The Tournament,” Cedric says easily. “It’s doing my head in.”

 He stretches his arms back, over his head, leaning further into the earthy tree, even as Harry’s heart _hammers_ against his chest; as he begins to feel rather light-headed, as though he’s been flying circles on the Firebolt in the cool of the air, _dizzy_.

“Not that. Before.”

“Oh.”

Cedric scratches his head, and, perhaps for the first time, Harry thinks he might look _sheepish_.

“I, uh,” he meets Harry’s eyes, and they are gleaming. “I like you,” he says simply, and it was not what he’d said, before, but Harry doesn’t care, because it is more, it is _better_. “Spending time with you. It puts this whole daft Tournament in perspective, I think.”

“Right,” Harry says, trying not to look _too_ affected, though, if the smirk that flits across Cedric’s face is anything to go by, he supposes he’s not been especially successful.

“Um. Yeah. I mean, me too. _You_ too, I mean- you uh, help,” Harry says, and Merlin, is he really that _bad_ at this, at _talking_ , and thank _god_ Ron and Hermione aren’t here to witness it.

He’d never hear the end of it.

Cedric is the only one laughing now, though it is _kind_ , low in his throat.

“I’d wondered why Rita Skeeter makes up all your quotes in her articles,” he muses. “I think I see it now.”

“Hey!” Harry says, indignant as he is embarrassed, and when Cedric laughs next, his fingers fall to Harry’s wrist, gripping light, loose, around it, but it sends a shiver down his spine, and it is _nothing_ like the kind he gets when he wakes, fresh from that dream, over and over again.

It is different.

_Invigorating_.

And it is _stupid_.

Because tomorrow, a Death Eater is sending him into a trial that he hopes will kill him, but that, _that_ , is not what has him feeling _nervous_ , now. That is not what has his cheeks heated and his mind in pieces.

He doesn’t know when it started, and it would be even harder to try to say why, but Cedric Diggory has featured rather frequently in his thoughts of late.

Nothing specific, really.

Only the way he is always smiling.

The way he is good when he doesn’t have to be.

The way he is always laughing around Harry, how _warm_ it feels, gratifying.

“Cedric,” he says, hesitant, but it is all he can think of, now. “When the Tournament is over, do you think we will still- y’know.”

Spend time together.

Be friends.

Be _anything_ at all.

He thought it first after the Second Task, soaked and cold and only really comforted by the fact that Cedric, too, is drenched, and smiling, still, telling him _‘congratulations’_ ; telling him ‘ _we made it’_.

The Tournament has made them _visible_ , to each other.

When it is gone- provided, of course, Harry doesn’t really die tomorrow- will the spell just sort of _break_?

“Why do you think I’m looking _forward_ to the Tournament ending?” Cedric says, mischief colouring his tone.

But then he grins, and Harry feels his own mouth stretching into one to match.

“Course we will, Harry.”

_Course we will._

* * *

 

Hermione is early to Defence Against the Dark Arts, skirt smoothed over her legs and ankles folded over as she waits in her chair at the front with a face like _ice._

She is fuming, of course, hasn’t _stopped,_ since the thought first crossed her mind, blinking at her like a thousand flashing lights.

_Legilimency._

And he thinks it is alright, that she wouldn’t figure it out.

That even if she did, it would be of no consequence to him, because-

What?

Because he is _beautiful_?

She snorts; remembers Professor Lockhart- his charming smile and eyes to match, frozen in sheer _bewilderment_ to find that it was _she_ who organised the petition to remove him from his post.

Because she had always _smiled_ at him, perhaps. Because she was _enthralled_ by his stories of magical prowess, of cool intellect, quick-thinking, _stolen_ , as she now knows they were.

There had been something _deeply_ satisfying about the look on his face; deeply satisfying about being, she expects, the first female he has encountered to make his life _harder_ , not easier, and oh, how _easy_ that man’s fraudulent existence had been.

She wonders what it will feel like, to see that look, plastered across _Professor Riddle’s_ face.

* * *

 

Hermione pays no real mind as the class fills around her, Harry and Ron taking their regular seats around her, Parvati at her side, Lavender shifting in near the back, beside the Slytherins.

It is only when the door slams, when _his_ scent, _intoxicating_ , infuses the air, that Hermione’s eyes sharpen.

Professor Riddle is immaculately dressed, groomed, this morning, and he approaches his desk with all the confidence of a man who knows that in this room, it is _he_ who has a monopoly on intellect; on _power,_ control.

And so, naturally, his face is struck with a rather surprised expression when, even as he starts talking about Grindelwald’s trial – a former _Durmstrang_ , she notes with a sinking feeling – she raises her hand.

“Granger?” he says mildly.

“Sir,” Hermione _smiles_ , polite as she can. “I was wondering if you could tell us more about Legilimency. I read that there are _some_ wizards who can perform it non-verbally- only, Legilimency is such a _difficult_ branch of magic. One would have to be so _powerful,_ wouldn’t one, to be able to accomplish _that_?”

Riddle purses his lips, brows furrowed, albeit slightly.

“Exceptionally,” he says, shortly. “Though we’re rather past Legilimency now. So, if you don’t mind-”

“I do,” Hermione says abruptly. “Mind, that is.”

A hush falls over the room, now.

Ron shoots her a look, and Riddle’s eyes are _fixed_ on hers, and she _feels_ it, always _feels_ it, and, god, he could be doing it to her, _right now_.

Hermione wets her lips and hurries on.

“Only, I am so _curious_ , Sir. If one could perform Legilimency without the incantation, isn’t it possible that one could effectively invade another’s mind, without that person ever realising it?”

Professor Riddle is _properly_ frowning now.

She wonders if it is because he knows, now.

That _she_ does.

Slowly, his arms fold _tight_ across his chest.

“Believe me, Granger, one would have to be _particularly_ moronic indeed to simply not _notice_ that their mind is being invaded,” he says coolly.

If it is meant as a jab at _her_ , Hermione is determined to ignore it.

“I see. And what would happen to somebody who was found performing non-verbal Legilimency without the consent of their subject?” she inquires, ever _delicate_.

“Azkaban,” Riddle says colourlessly. “Naturally- and as discussed _several_ lessons ago, Granger. Are you quite finished derailing _this_ one?”

“Of course,” Hermione says. “Silly of me, really, I only wanted to be _sure._ I wonder, would it be any _different_ , Sir, if, for example, a Legilimens was using their power on particularly _vulnerabl_ e people?”

Professor Riddle’s eyes _gleam_.

“Vulnerable?”

“Yes, Sir,” Hermione says, _sweetly_.

She meets his eyes, now, gaze _bearing_ into his, because what she says next is _important,_ is everything.

 “A Professor on a student, for example? I mean, that would be particularly _improper,_ wouldn’t it?”

Some _dark_ look falls across his features, now, some _thunder_ that was not there a moment ago, and _oh_ , he _understands_ now, what she is saying; what she is _doing_.

It is not only _his_ attention that she has captured, now.

Harry, Ron, Parvati, Dean, even Malfoy- they are _all_ staring.

First at her, then at Professor Riddle.

Their eyes _narrow_.

They start to _wonder_.

And he can _see_ them wondering – the suspicion _enveloping_ them, the unease, the _looks_ they are exchanging.

Because he is an _impressive_ wizard, and they all _know_ that.

He is competent at non-verbal magic, and they all _know_ that.

And he knows about Legilimency, knows how to walk the line between _illegal_ and educational, and _they all know that_ , too.

“Professor-” Malfoy starts, a question in his voice, and Riddle cuts him _off_.

“Yet _more_ Azkaban,” he says tightly. “Possibly a Dementor’s Kiss. You ought to know that, Miss Granger.”

“I do now,” Hermione’s smile is _razor_ sharp. “Thanks to you, Professor. Do feel _free_ to continue with the lesson, now. I believe you’ve answered all my questions.”

It is as good as an _order_ , and it is not _lost_ on him, nor her classmates.

So she waits.

For the scolding.

For the deduction of House Points.

For the detention, perhaps – now that would be something _novel_.

She is somewhat _disappointed_ when he only inclines his head, lip quirked upward.

“As you wish. Now, _Potter_ , tell me, where was Grindelwald sent to serve his sentence?”

* * *

 

The lesson is _tense_ , however valiant Riddle’s efforts to keep their attentions trained solely on the topic at hand are.

Behind her, Hermione hears Lavender whispering with Parvati about Professor Riddle- about his Legilimency, about how she _swears_ he must have done it to _her._

Harry and Ron have spent the better part of class trying to catch her eye, each wearing an expression that is equal parts confused and concerned. Ron even looks angry, betrayed, somehow.

She feels some pang of sympathy for him.

In the space of a week, he has learned that his Quidditch hero might be a Death Eater, and his new, and _only,_ ever, favourite Professor has probably been using Legilimency on them.

If Professor Riddle is rattled by it, though, by _them_ , _her,_ he does not show it.

He is as composed as ever, hair neatly parted, shirt tucked under his belt, voice smooth as he tells them about Grindelwald’s perpetual declarations of remorse in custody.

He is in the midst of explaining why the Council of Magical Law refused to hear them – denying him even the _opportunity_ to speak before them – when she feels it.

It is as though somebody has shoved her quite _physically_ backward by the head, and her back slams against the spine of her chair, even as the sensation continues, and it is _tugging_ now, _tearing_ at her mind, and she could swear that _something_ is pulling _hard_ on her hair, so hard she can’t help but wince, eyes can’t help but prickle, fists curl in, nails digging into her palms, so sharp and hard they might draw _blood-_

**_Don’t look so alarmed, Granger_ ** _._

Hermione stiffens.

It is _his_ voice.

His voice, but that is _impossible_.

Because he is right there, right in front of her, speaking about Grindelwald, still, looking at _Malfoy,_ who’s asked something about the final duel, not _her,_ and yet –

Her lips part, mind _straining_ , spinning, to understand it.

**_Goodness,_ ** **look _at you. It’s_ almost _as if you’ve never been subjected to Legilimency before._**

She _hears_ him, clear as anything, mocking words _ringing_ in her ears as though he has whispered _right_ into them.

_Legilimency._

So t _his_ is it, what it feels like, and Merlin, it is _nothing_ like anything she has experienced before – _nothing_ like the way it has felt, _before_ , when she thought- when she thought she _knew_ \-   

She stares at him, dumbfounded, opens her mouth to speak-

**_I wouldn’t, if I were you. Unless you want your classmates to think you’ve gone mad, of course_ ** _._

God, he isn’t even _looking_ at her, and how on _earth_ is it possible – that he can be _in her head_ without a wand, without words, without even _looking?_

And he is still _talking,_ coherent, flowing, not a clue in the way he holds himself as to what he is _doing-_

**_You can stop being_ ** **impressed _, now. I would show you, you know, how to do it, were you not so terribly rude today._**

Hermione shudders, because Merlin, how _dare_ he-

**_How dare_ ** **you _, Granger._**

He _corrects_ her, and it is preposterous, because he is the one _in her head, illegally_ , painfully –

**_I_ ** **told _you, didn’t I? One would have to be_ moronic _indeed not to_ notice _a Legilimens prodding about in one’s mind. It’s not nearly as_ painless _as you seemed to think. You have_ no _idea what you are doing, making these senseless_ allegations _, Granger._ _How_ dare _you think that I might see fit to risk_ Azkaban _to see inside_ your _head?_**

Her mind is still _aching,_ still feels s _tretched,_ somehow, s _harp,_ the pressure digging deeper.

**_You are in my head_** **now _,_** she thinks, _seething_ , desperate.  

**_Indeed._ **

It sounds so _smooth,_ so _him._

**_But you needn’t fret. I’ve no intention of lingering. I only stopped by to make a point_ ** _._

She is glowering at him, now, even through the unbearable hurt, and for a moment, the briefest moment, his eyes flicker to hers.

He almost _smiles._

**_I don’t know what possessed you to believe it, but rest assured, Granger, I have never invaded your mind, nor anyone else in this room’s, without_ ** **express _permission. Be sure to come equipped with more_ evidence _, though, next time you wish to cast aspersions._**

Hermione swallows, cheeks turning scarlet because, Merlin, she was _wrong,_ and that meant-

That meant-

God, he really hadn’t done it before.

She was _wrong._

**_I expect that’s as close to an apology as I’ll get from_ ** **you _._**

Riddle sounds resigned, and, _mercifully_ , the grip on her mind seems to loosen, somehow, the _sharp_ feeling of somebody tearing at her hair, pulling her _apart,_ fades-

Hermione _quivers_ with the sheer relief of the feeling.

“Granger?”

Hermione blinks, dazed, even as the feeling leaves her entirely.

Professor Riddle is standing before her desk, arms folded and brows quirked up, something like triumph contorting his features.

“I _said_ , how many times did Grindelwald attempt to escape from Nurmengard prison?”

Hermione, flustered, scrambles to respond.

“He never did,” she says, breathless, so much so that Harry shoots her a puzzled look. “He wanted to appeal to the Council, but even when they refused to hear him, Grindelwald _never_ tried to escape. To this day, he insists that he is a changed man.”

Riddle almost _smirks_ , eyes glinting – _impressed,_ at least, that she’s managed to muster an answer at all, it seems.

“Good.”

With a flourish, he raises his wrist, noting the time carved out on the rather elegant watch fixed to it.

“That will be all, then, students. Your homework- due tomorrow morning- is to produce an essay of five to ten pages telling me whether Dark Wizards are truly capable of _reform_.”

Ron _groans._

“But Sir,” he protests, “tomorrow’s the Third Task!”

“Of course,” Riddle says. “How negligent of me to have forgotten. Now, then, _Potter_ , you needn’t produce an essay this time. The rest of you, on the other hand, have no such excuse. Dismissed.”

Hermione is on her feet the moment she says it, though they are _shaking,_ all of her is s _haking._

She does not look at Professor Riddle on her way to the door, and Harry and Ron, with an uneasy glance at the Professor, follow after her, to ask her, she knows, what on _earth_ she had been on about, earlier.

To ask her about when, _why_ , Professor Riddle used Legilimency on her.

Only he hadn’t.

Not at the Yule Ball.

Not that day, in his classroom, when he had said, _suggested_ , things that had Hermione’s stomach _twisting_.

Not until _now_.

And it has her absolutely _reeling_.

* * *

 

Dodging Harry and Ron, Hermione, as ever, finds her solitude this evening in her regular library nook, surrounded by books.

One book, entitled _Dreams and Divination: The Art of Prediction,_ is a not entirely unhelpful resource in her ever-urgent quest to uncover the _meaning_ behind Harry’s graveyard nightmare, and another, _Journey from Dark to Light,_ is informing her answer to Professor Riddle’s essay question.

The irony of it is not lost on her, of course.

She has been wondering at it all _week_.

Could Karkaroff truly be different, _better,_ now?

Could Sirius be wrong?

And Merlin, she is looking for _every_ sign that he could be, every _damn_ sign that Karkaroff was not the one to put Harry’s name in the Goblet.

It was just Malfoy, she wants to tell herself. Just Malfoy, or some other prat, trying to play some trick.

At least, if that is true, then Harry is safer.

At least, if that is true, it might soothe her anxious heart, if only for a moment.

So she argues, _fervently_ , that Dark Wizards c _an_ change.

She points out that almost a _ll_ witches and wizards who are Dark have tormented upbringings, isolated, lacking in _purpose –_ that the Dark envelopes them because they have nothing _else t_ o turn to, and so it beckons them in, offering them power, _importance._

Menderos is her case in point. Pureblood, yet _unwanted_ by her mother, who, the records show, spent most of her days in a haze of fairydust and dragon-whisky, Menderos was raised by her grandmother- a proud old woman who herself was distinctly _unfond_ of children, herself. She was subject to the most awful abuse, neglect, scarcely fed. Some sources even suggest she was subject to _crucio_ a number of times before she went to school. There, she was different. Clever, gifted- not the waste of air that her grandmother had taken her for. But she was broken, still, twisted, and how she, too, came to _loathe_ children-

And so, she argues, Dark witches, wizards, are not born, but constructed; their architects the men and women who raise them, the people who neglect them, misguide them this way and that. And that does not mean that they are capable of being forgiven, but it does been they can be re-made. _Re-constructed_ , as it were; reborn.

It is hastily written, of course, shamefully so, but it is Professor Riddle, and he has Hermione so utterly spent, _undone_ , frustrated, that she can’t say she cares much.

She has more pressing work to do tonight.

Hermione pulls _Dreams and Divination_ towards her, flipping through the pages with impatient eyes, looking for something _new._

She has already learned a great deal about dreams, these past few days.

She knows, of course, that more often than not, they are meaningless; the jumbled thoughts and musings of the subconscious mind.

She knows, too, that recurring dreams are less likely to be this way.

She knows that some, of course, some, can show you things that have past.

Rarer still, but _possible,_ some can even show you things that are to come.

And if that is the case; if that is truly what the dream is doing, then it is no good to dwell on it.

There is nothing, she had read last night, with biting finality, that one can do to change the course of the future, to stop the events of a predicted dream from taking place.

It is fixed in the stars, already.

_Done,_ more or less.

Not that she’s told Harry that.

She won’t, she’s decided.

Not until she finds something that might at least challenge it, cast _doubt_ over the idea.

And so she looks, _searches_ the pages of this book, the last in the whole _section_ Hermione has yet to examine, for something _hopeful_.

Just keeps _searching_ , even as the lights glow and fade.

“Miss Granger.”

At last, Hermione looks up, wincing at the familiar drawl of Madam Pince.

“The library is closing,” she says, face contorted as though she’s just taken a bite out of something sour.

“Already?” Hermione says, and her voice _falters_ because _Merlin_ , she needs more time, _Harry_ needs more time.

Madam Pince’s smile is thin, but it is there.

“Books do tend to suspend one’s awareness of the passing time,” she allows. “But time has passed nonetheless, and I do not wish to penalise you, Miss Granger.”

Swallowing, Hermione nods.

“Of course, Madam Pince.” She gives a weak smile. “I’ll be on my way.”

And so she is, leaving the book with a restless heart and mind, the road from here to the Gryffindor Common Room stretched out so long Hermione has nothing to do but think of it.

_Tomorrow_.

The last Task.

Karkaroff, _Viktor_.

Harry’s troubling dream that may or may not be a _vision_.

Her mind is practically _shouting_ about it.

And so it is most surprising, jarring, when she hears something else.

Voices, low, murmuring, fast and frantic, and coming from the broom cupboard embedded in the stone corridor before her.

“ _-can’t ignore it, Severus. It’s a sign.”_

Hermione’s blood runs _cold._

She knows that voice.

She has learned to fear it rather recently.

_Igor Karkaroff._

In a broom cupboard, speaking in a rough, hushed voice, to Professor Snape, on the very night before the Third Task.

She hesitates.

She should leave, some part of her says, firmly.

This is none of her business and she wants to _keep_ it that way, so she should leave.

_And yet._

God, but she would be a fool to, wouldn’t she?

A fool, when _here_ is an opportunity to overhear the _proof_ that she needs to show Dumbledore that Karkaroff is not the man he believes him to be.

To keep Harry out of the Tournament.

_Safe._

In the end, the decision was already made.

Hermione holds her breath, willing herself not to inhale or exhale too loudly, and she edges nearer, presses her ear to the door, and strains to hear them over the sound of her throbbing heart.

“-afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to, Karkaroff.”

It is Snape, his deep drawl bored as ever.

Whatever Karkaroff is so _frantic_ about, it seems he doesn’t share his sentiments over it.

Hermione wonders what.

Wonders _why_.

“Yes you do.”

It is Karkaroff again, angry, but something else, more than that-

_Frightened_?

“Liar. You know what it means as well as I.”

“And what do you suggest we do about it?” Snape hisses.

Hermione presses closer despite herself, curiosity _waking_ her up, searing through her veins.

She wasn’t aware that Snape even knew Karkaroff.

But the way the Headmaster is talking to the Potions Professor now, it seems that they do.

Rather well, for that matter.

Oh _Merlin_.

Ron is always saying how Snape is out to get Harry – but, no, it can’t be him, too.

He saved Harry, when Professor Quirrell had cursed Harry’s broom, tried to kill him, she mustn’t forget that.

But if that is true than why is Karkaroff speaking to him like this?

“He will call for you, too, Severus.”

There is a warning in Karkaroff’s voice, now, cold, brittle, and it _chills_ Hermione to her core.

_He._

That’s _Him,_ isn’t it?

You Know Who.

So he _is_ returning, after all.

So Karkaroff _is_ working for him.

But _Snape_?

Why in _Godric’s name_ would You Know Who call for _Snape_?

Hermione feels hollow, _numb_.

If she leans closer, she can make out Snape, exhaling deeply, _unimpressed_.

“I’ve no time for this, Igor.”

At the sound of footsteps, Hermione jerks back, stumbling away from the door even as falls open, light from within spilling out into the corridor, and it is too _late_ for her to disappear, and Merlin, why didn’t she borrow Harry’s cloak, why does she _never_ borrow the cloak?

Wincing, she turns to the Professors, mouth half-open, ready for a flood of excuses to burst from it; she was just passing by, feared that the cupboards were being robbed, didn’t want any trouble-

She stops dead.

Because Karkaroff is in dark night-clothes, and his eyes are wide, unhinged.

Because he is gripping Snape’s arm, as though to bar him from leaving.

Because he has drawn up Snape’s sleeves so that they pool just above the crook of his elbow.

Most of all-

_Most of all-_

Because of the _mark_ that he exposes, there, etched forever into the milk white of Snape’s arm.

_His_ Mark.

* * *

 

Snape jerks away from Karkaroff, he pulls his sleeve down over his arm in an instant, but it is _useless_ , because Hermione _knows_ that Mark, has _seen_ it before – the narrow skull with the curled _snake_ for a tongue, writhing in the night’s sky at the World Cup, and then again, on the cover of the _Prophet_ for two weeks straight after the fact.

It is just as _alive_ as it had been, too, in the sky, the snake _hissing_ , swaying –

Snape is _glowering_ at her now, and Karkaroff looks as furious as he is petrified.

“Severus,” Karkaroff mutters, casting Snape a fierce look, a _helpless_ one.

“ _Granger_ ,” Snape says, voice harsh, accusing.

“Oh,” Hermione says.

There is nothing else to say.

“ _Severus.”_

Karkaroff is saying it again, urgent, tugging at Snape’s arm.

Snape casts him off with a rough shrug, eyes fixed on Hermione.

“I-”

Hermione c _hokes._

God, _god_ , this cannot be real.

Not because she is naïve enough to believe that Death Eaters are all in prison, that there are no loyalists on the outside, walking among them.

But because she is- was- naïve enough to believe that at least _here, a_ t Hogwarts, _now,_ it would be true.

At least _Snape,_ horrid as he may be, cruel, ominous, couldn’t be, couldn’t _possibly_ be –

But he is.

_He is he is he is_.

“I was just leaving,” she croaks. “Almost curfew, you understand, so, I’ll… just…”

For every step that she takes, clumsy, backward, Professor Snape takes one forward, and his face, pallid, eyes _too_ dark,  is utterly _unreadable_ , and it does nothing to offset her stuttering heart.

“Go,” she breathes. “I’ll just go, shall I? If you’ll excuse me.”

And she isn’t at all sure how it is, precisely, that she is _moving,_ only thanks Merlin that she _is,_ and she is stumbling _away_ from them – back, more or less, the way she came, pace quickening even as she hears Karkaroff, behind her, cursing, telling Snape to _do something,_ and suddenly she is _running,_ feet hammering _hard, loud_ on the cold floors, tearing down this stairwell even as it shifts, takes her somewhere else, until she can’t hear them anymore- can’t hear _anything_ anymore, and that’s just as well, because she needs the quiet, needs it to _think –_

She _has_ to go to Dumbledore, has to find his office, has to hope he’ll be there, even despite his absence at every meal since the Second Task-

She _has_ to go to Dumbledore, only-

Only-

She draws in a jagged breath, eyes wide, and _wonderfully_ , terribly, she _understands_.

The little column in the Council of Magical Law reports, _Motion for Leniency Granted._

The name, _Albus Dumbledore,_ printed elegantly below.

And more importantly, the _other_ names, the ones that she couldn’t see; the ones that had been redacted.

The names of the ones Karkaroff gave up, tried to _exchange_ for his own.

There was a _reason_ , there had to be, why those names were not present.

And only a member of the Council had the authority to redact them.

Hermione’s fingers are t _rembling,_ now, throat _dry,_ because god, she _understands_ it now, and yet she _doesn’t._

Igor Karkaroff is a Death Eater, oh yes, but _so_ is Severus Snape.

And _Professor Dumbledore_ –

The one with the half-moon spectacles, the presence like a pleasant dream, the smile that speaks to the s _oul,_ knows, has _always_ known.

She lets out something like a gasp and a whimper as she passes through another corner-

She is rather close to the Dungeons, now, quite far from the comfort of the Gryffindor Common Room- although she suspects neither Harry nor Ron could truly be of much _comfort_ to her now.

Hermione is in _pieces_.

For that, she _loathes_ herself.

She cannot _afford_ to be in pieces, now.

What _good_ is it, what good is _she,_ if she isn’t even _clever_ enough to think of something, now?

What good is she, running, panting, eyes _burning_ with tears that threaten to spill over onto heated cheeks, running _nowhere –_

Professor Riddle was right, at the Yule Ball, she thinks.

Because she isn’t all that clever, really. She can’t be.

_Professor Riddle_.

She is not far from his quarters, of course, she knows that.

Knows, because even now, she remembers what Dumbledore had said that night at the Great Hall, about where they might find him, should they need to, after hours.

By the dungeons, in Room 7.

But she _can’t_ –

Hermione hears something behind her, a scatter, a _creak_ , and she snaps around, hair a flying mess behind her, dreading the sight of Karkaroff, of Snape, caught up to her at last, though by some miracle, they have not, yet.

Her heart is caught in her throat, _bubbling,_ torn, and for just about the first time Hermione can remember, she has no _clue_ what to do now.

And so she doesn’t _think a_ bout it.

Doesn’t stop to remember how e _mbarrassed s_ he feels, how _confused,_ that she was wrong about his Legilimency. How he was ever caught in this catastrophic pattern of _warm_ and _cold_ and _warm_ and _cold_ , delivering some stinging blow whenever she began to feel that at last, they understood each other. At last, she understood _him_.

For this _one_ moment, she only really thinks of one thing: the _only_ thing she can be sure of.

_Professor Riddle will protect Harry Potter._

And so Hermione she _bolts_ down the corridor, ignoring the portraits as they blink awake from their slumbers, as they glare, tell her to _keep it down,_ squinting through the blur of the tears that still promise to leak, searching for the number –

His number.

She throws her fists upon it the moment she finds it, the little unassuming Maple-wood door with the scratched handle in deep green.

She only manages to knock three times before the door folds _in_ and open.

Professor Riddle blinks, caught, it seems, by surprise, and it is a _rarity_ , that _look_ on his face, though Hermione is in no state to savour it tonight.

“Granger,” he says, and before he can say another word, she is cutting him off, though her heart is roaring in her ears and she really can’t be sure what is it she’s saying at all.

Something like ‘ _please’_.

Something like _‘I have to’_ Something like ‘ _I can’t._ ’

She cannot see at _all_ , now, and _god, s_ he must be a fright to behold, _unhinged,_ even broken.

The tears that have been threatening to spill over do, clouding her vision so she cannot know what Riddle is _thinking_ –

Whether he intends to turn her away.

Merlin, if he _turns her away-_

Professor Riddle clears his throat.

She hears the groan of the door being pushed back, farther, still.

She holds her breath, and when he speaks next, she could cry for sheer _relief_.

“You’d better come in.”

* * *

 

“Professor Snape is a Death Eater.”

It is the first thing that she says, once she has learned once more the art of forming sentences, all of twenty minutes after she collapsed through Door 7.

Riddle’s chambers are jarringly _impersonal_.

There is a rather modest desk, neat piles of books stacked at the ends, parchment unravelled in the centre by a handful of handsome quills, and there is a small bed with white sheets in the corner. The only light available to them comes from scattered, long candles, flames fickle in the air.

Hermione is seated on a green leather chair, remarkably soft, despite appearances, a full glass of water, freshly conjured, courtesy of her host, cooling her hands.

Professor Riddle is crouched on the floorboards before her, _kneeling_ , really, and their respective positions right now are as strange as they are disarming, to Hermione. 

His hair is rather _messy_ , a stark contrast to his usual appearance, and he isn’t wearing a buttoned shirt, now – only a plain, white shirt, and soft pants.

Of course, it makes sense.

Professors sleep too, she supposes.

Though she never _could_ imagine this particular one crawling into a warm bed at the end of the day.

“Come again?” Riddle’s voice is soft, and for that, Hermione is grateful.

She is still ever so s _ensitive_ to the slightest sounds- the clink of her fingernail on the rim of her water glass, the moan of the floor as Riddle shifts on his knees.

It is as though Professor Snape might burst through Riddle’s very door, confront her, then and there.

Hermione coughs, willing her voice to come out s _tronger,_ this time, s _ure._

But she doesn’t feel strong at all, and is terribly unsure, of course, of _everything_ right now.

“Snape - and Karkaroff, too, Headmaster Karkaroff; they’re Death Eaters.”

Professor Riddle’s eyes are very wide, eyebrows pulled _in._

“What makes you say that?” he says, finally.

He is not mocking her, she thinks.

Merlin, at least, she _hopes_ that he is not.

“I saw them,” she croaks. “Just now. They were in a- a broom cupboard. Karkaroff was talking about- Him, Sir, about You Know Who. He said that He would call for Snape, too. And then I saw- _I saw-”_

Riddle raises a finger to his lips, now, inviting her to be silent, for the moment.

When he lowers it, he rests his hand on her knee, ever so lightly, but there is some _unreasonable_ degree of comfort in the gesture, all the same.

“Take your time,” he says, more gently than she had imagined him _capable_ of.

Hermione swallows past something _hard_ in her throat; nods.

“I saw the Dark Mark on Professor Snape’s arm,” she says, colourless, numb, now, to the feeling- to all the _shock_ , the _hurt,_ the _fear_.

She glances at Professor Riddle.

The muscles in his neck are tense, coiled, somehow, eyes alert, and something in her chest unravels, somehow, because Merlin, he _believes her,_ and he is not _dismissing_ it, and thank _god._

“You haven’t spoken to Dumbledore about this,” Riddle frowns. “Why?”

Hermione hesitates.

“I think he already knows,” she admits. “I know that – Sir, I found out about Karkaroff, so I read about his- his _appeal_ , before the Council. I know he gave names of other Death Eaters to buy his freedom, but the names were redacted, and Dumbledore was _there,_ on the Council, and I think _Snape_ -”

“ _Oh_ ,” Riddle breathes. “Yes. I see. Clever.”

His eyes are very bright.

“Sir, I don’t understand why- _how_ on _earth_ \- it’s just so _irresponsible,_ Professor, to allow-”

“ _Hermione_ ,” Riddle says, imploring; her name, her _first_ name, and the _sound_ of it stops her in her tracks.

“Call me Tom.”

Hermione shakes her head, bewildered, because of all the things he could be saying to her now, _this-?_

“What?”

“It’s- my name,” Riddle says, rather oddly indeed, as though he is _embarrassed_. “You’re not in a classroom, nor are you at a school event. There is no need to call me _Sir_ right now, Hermione.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, puzzled, still, but in the scheme of everything that she has learned tonight, _this week_ , it is a puzzle amongst a plethora of _significantly_ more pressing ones. “Alright- _Tom_?”

It feels bizarre to say, truly, but she can’t think on that now.

All the same, Riddle nearly _smiles_.

“Quite so.”

He leans forward, now, his face _perfectly_ level with hers from his position on the floor.

“Hermione, what you saw is – distressing, at best. But rest assured, there is nothing that either Karkaroff or Snape can do you any harm. I’ll not _allow_ it.”

His voice is low, hoarse, and she can tell that he _means it,_ and it sends a _shiver_ down her spine, and she wants to laugh, because Merlin, only _he_ could manage to look so perfectly _intimidating_ in a soft cotton shirt and pants-

Still, she shakes her head, _frantic_.

“I’m not worried about _me_ ,” she says. “I _am_ , but- Sir- _Tom_ \- it’s about _Harry_. It’s about the Tournament.”

At that, Riddle’s lips _part_.

“Potter?”

Hermione leans forward, sudden, _imploring_ him to understand.

“We never found out who put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire,” she says urgently. “And your check on the Goblet didn’t show any signs foul play- which means only someone _powerful_ could have done it, doesn’t it? It would have to have been magic far beyond the abilities of a _student_. And the Tournament is dangerous, terribly so – it’s never been a _secret_ that people die in it. It could look like an accident. The Tournament a _s usual._ ”

Riddle’s eyes _narrow_.

“What are you saying, Hermione?”

Hermione draws in a staggered breath.

She knows what she is doing.

Telling a Professor that _another_ Professor is a Death Eater; has broken the _rules._

And she knows what could happen if Riddle went straight to Snape, to Karkaroff.

Knows the _danger_ she could be in, _Harry_ could be in.

But tonight, he is _Tom,_ not Professor Riddle, and even if he was –

_Even if he was_ , he would protect Harry.

He would _help_ them.

She _knows_ it, never-mind that she does not know _why._

“I think Karkaroff put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire,” Hermione’s voice is _trembling_ now, she is sure of it. “And I think he did it because- because _You Know Who_ is _back_.”

She is _panting_ when she finishes, the sheer exhaustion of saying _those words_ overwhelming.

 For a long, drawn-out moment, Riddle only studies her face, expression _quite_ blank.

“Most everyone says that he is long dead,” he says, at last. “He Who Must Not Be Named.”

“They thought that in our first year,” Hermione says bitterly. “That didn’t stop him from clinging onto the back of Professor Quirrell’s head and trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“No,” Riddle says, slowly. “It didn’t.”

He hesitates, and it is only now that Hermione registers his thumb, tracing small circles over and over on her knee, warming the skin there.

She closes her eyes, breathes _in_.

“I don’t know what I should do,” she says, quietly, as though to speak any louder would be to flaunt her _weakness_ , her uncertainty. “But leaving Harry to just- to just _waltz_ into the Tournament, knowing a _Death Eater_ probably put his name in the Goblet of Fire – _two_ Death Eaters, even- I _can’t_ do it.”

Her voice _cracks_ , and she waits for Riddle to _smirk_.

To make some comment about how she’s given up _easy_ ; how she’s just floundering because she’s an _idiot_.

Instead, though-

Instead, his eyes are terribly bright, mouth soft, quirked up, not into a _smirk,_ but a _smile._

“Tell me, Hermione, what did Harry Potter do to earn loyalty like this?”

Hermione blinks, confused.

“What did he _do_?” she repeats dimly. 

“Am I to believe that you are simply this _unconditionally_ loyal to everybody you meet, then?”

There is some gentle edge to his voice, now, something like teasing, although the question behind it, she senses, is _real_.

“Harry is my friend,” she says simply. “He would do the same for me- or _anyone,_ for that matter.”

Riddle pauses, only _looking_ at her, the most odd cocktail of exasperation, of _endearment,_ colouring his face.

“Mm,” he muses, at last. “I’d wager you’re probably right about that.”

Riddle straightens his back, then, and the fingers that are not occupied tracing over her knee find the soft spot, just under her chin; tilt it upward, that they are truly face to face.

He swallows.

“If it eases your mind at all, I can tell you that _I_ will be the one to place the Triwizard Cup in its location, tomorrow, for the Champions to find.”

Hermione blinks, flicks her tongue over her _painfully_ cracked lips.

“You- you are?”

“Indeed,” he inclines his head. “If there is anything untoward in the challenge, Hermione, I will find it, then. Nobody stands a chance at killing Potter in the Tournament tomorrow.” He leans in, eyes _fierce_. “I give you my _word._ ”

Hermione blinks, first, because it is far too _much._

Too _good._

This assurance that it will be okay, that Karkaroff _won’t_ succeed, no matter what he has planned-

That this person with control, with power, over the third task _has Harry’s back_.

She closes her eyes, _shudders,_ unable to fully contain the absolute relief that _floods_ through her veins, now.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, eyes resting still; lids heavy, impossible to _lift_ , and suddenly, she is unbearably _exhausted._

“You shouldn’t thank me, Hermione,” Riddle murmurs, and there is an edge to his words, something terribly _sad,_ that _forces_ her eyes open.

His face is half-shadows and half-light, mouth set in a tight line, eyes fixed on a spot on the ground.

She frowns, and almost of their own accord, _she_ is reaching out, _her_ fingers brushing under _his_ chin, this time, guiding his face upward until he is looking at her again.

His lips fall apart, surprised, and perhaps something else as well.

She flushes, remembering what he had said, that day in the classroom, about her, what she _wanted,_ though that all hardly matters now, hardly feels _remotely_ important.

“You believed me,” she says determinedly. “Even though you don’t much like me, you let me explain. And you’ll help Harry. You’ve always helped Harry. _Thank you.”_

Riddle looks most _odd_ now.

His eyes are positively bearing into hers, wide, open, some _feeling_ in them she can’t place, but she’s seen it before – in class, at the Yule Ball-  

She hesitates, and, in the end, she cannot help herself.

“Sir- Tom? Why? Why have you always helped Harry? I don’t think you said.”

She yawns before he can answer, and Riddle’s face is too _soft,_ now.  

“You should get to bed. It won’t do to dwell on this further, tonight.”

She should, of course, she knows it-

Only, that means leaving.

Her pulse quickens at the thought of it.

Of his door, slamming behind her.

Of the slow, _creaking_ journey back home.

Of the shadows around the corners, _that broom cupboard_ -

Snape, Karkaroff, out there, still, _waiting_ for her.

At the look on her face, Riddle shakes his head.

“I didn’t mean you have to leave.”

At that, Hermione turns _pink,_ and, to his credit, so does he.

He clears his throat vehemently.

“I _meant_ ,” he says abruptly, “you can rest here until the morning, if you wish. I can imagine the prospect of walking into the corridors again tonight might be an unpleasant one. I wasn’t going to sleep much tonight, anyway- I’ve got rather pressing matters to attend to.”

He gestures to his desk, and, sure enough, his quill lies there, ink spilling from its tip onto parchment, something written, _unfinished_ there.

“Oh,” Hermione says. “I- Sir, I shouldn’t-”

“Please,” Riddle interjects, some pained look on his face that she doesn’t _understand,_ “Call me Tom.”

Hermione stares at him, for a moment, really _stares_.

_Tom Riddle._

Perhaps that is it, then; this divide between the two different brands of the same man.

Perhaps _Tom_ is kind, is not mocking, biting.

Perhaps that is only ever _Professor Riddle._

“Tom,” she says, voice awfully small, and he _closes_ his eyes –

His hand is still on her knee.

_He_ is still _on_ his knees, before her.

And it has Hermione feeling so _warm._

_Safe._

And so, despite all the reasons that she probably, really shouldn’t, Hermione _nods_.

And when she closes her eyes, next, her head is resting upon the thin bed’s starch white pillow.

And when she begins to drift, next, it is to _nothing_ but the sound of his quill, scratching at parchment as he writes, on and _on_ into the night, each stroke a reminder of his promise.

And when she dreams, next, it is not of Karkaroff, nor Snape, nor the Dark Mark.

It is of Harry, and Ron, and they are sitting at the Gryffindor table at dinner, and the Tournament is over, and they are _safe_ , the three of them.

For the first time in rather a long time, Hermione Granger has _pleasant_ dreams.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you dearly for reading! 
> 
> I am actually so tired right now so I'm basically just crossing my fingers and hoping that this chapter is a) in english, or b) in some other discernible language that exists. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos, subscribed, or commented since the last update!   
> Really keen to see what you make of this one! 
> 
> I am so excited right now because, either next chapter, or the one after that, we're finally going to get some serious Riddle pov :)


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Harry has never been more displeased to be awake.

That’s not to say he was having an especially _excellent_ time while he was asleep.

The nightmare saw to that; the lonely graveyard, the cauldron, that _terrible_ voice calling his name, _beckoning_.

Still, he’d sooner stay in that dream than this day.

This day, when Karkaroff means for him to _die_ in the Triwizard Tournament, and he is wildly unprepared, save, at least, for the fact that he _knows_ , now, to be cautious.

That he knows now that this is no mere competition, not for him.

He groans as he pulls himself up in this four-poster bed, the muscles in his shoulders aching, jarred from a dismal night’s sleep.

A yawning Ron, blinking into the sunlight dancing light through the windows, greets him.

“Well,” Ron says, and he looks about as ill as Harry feels.

“Yeah,” is his flat response.

“Alright, Harry?”

It is Neville, already on his feet, wrapped in a wool coat and lacing up his boots at the end of his bed.

“Best of luck today,” he says, upbeat. “You’re gonna be brilliant, I know it.”

Harry winces at the sheer _effort_ it costs him to smile.

“Thanks, Neville.”

“Come on, then, you two,” the boy grins. “Breakfast will be over in a minute.”

He stands, now, hands rubbing together for warmth, and he looks at Harry, expectant.

“You go ahead,” Harry says, hasty. “We’ll be right down, won’t we, Ron?”

“Right down,” Ron mumbles, eyes still scrunched together, not quite willing to embrace consciousness as yet this morning. “Yeah.”

“Alright, then,” Neville says, cheerful. “I’ll save you some toast, shall I?”

Ron waits until he has plotted down the length of the stairs before he speaks next, eyes wide as he looks across at Harry.

“Blimey,” he says. “Guess it’s happening now, isn’t it?”

Harry’s mouth tastes sour.

“Guess it is,” he says dully. “Take care of Hedwig, will you, when I die.”

“I don’t know if you want me looking after your owl, mate,” Ron points out. “You’ve met Errol.”

Harry snorts, _almost_ laughing.

“Right, daft of me. I’ll give her to Hermione instead.”

At that, Ron’s brow furrows.

“Speaking of,” he says. “Never saw her come in last night. I was by the fire for ages – fell asleep there, even, around midnight.”

Harry swallows, heart quickening, waking him in earnest, now.

“Nor me,” he admits. “I never found her after Defence Against the Dark Arts. Still don’t know what all that was about- Legilimency.”

It was curious, that – and any other night, he would’ve been up awake in the dark, wondering what on earth she’d meant by it.

Wondering what on earth Professor Riddle had _done_ to her, and when, and why she hadn’t told them, though he shudders to think of the answers.

He thought she liked Professor Riddle, all things considered.

Merlin, _he_ did, and Ron.

And Riddle seemed to like her, all things considered, too.

He certainly seemed displeased, to say the least, to find she’d been unceremoniously drowned in the Black Lake in the course of the second task.

But something about yesterday, about the way Hermione had been _tense,_ coiled up, as though she was readying herself for some _attack,_ set a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“You don’t reckon this is another hostage type situation, do you?” Ron asks, eyes bright as he considers it. “For the Tournament?”

Harry pauses.

He hadn’t thought it possible, really – recycling the same kind of task, it seemed most _lazy_ , and he is about to say so when Ron’s face whitens.

 “Or- _fuck_ , Harry, _fuck,_ you don’t think Karkaroff did something?”

Harry freezes, blood running suddenly _cold._

“No,” he croaks, though he’s not sure who precisely he’s supposed to be convincing. “Nah, why would he? It’s not like he knows we’re onto him.”

“Unless he does,” Ron says slowly. “Unless she said something to him- or Dumbledore.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Harry says at once.

But he remembers what Professor Riddle had said, that night in the library.

That it was the night before the second task, and yet Hermione was not there, with him.

He remembers the scepticism dripping from the Professor’s tongue, the way his eyes had _widened_ , brows drew _in._

Hermione has been agonising over this wretched game more so than even _he_ has. Throw in a bona fide assassination attempt by a Death Eater this time round, and her absence feels awfully strange indeed.

She would have been there, with him and Ron, pouring over this book and that until the clock permitted it no longer.

Hermione would have been there, and she _wasn’t_.

The way Ron is looking at him now, Harry knows that he is thinking the very same.

“We need to find her,” he says, determined, now, alive.

He throws his legs over the side of his bed, sliding down, flinching as his toes meet the harsh cool of the floorboards.

“We don’t have _time,_ ” Ron says, agitated, searching the ground for a shirt that smells acceptably recently washed. “We’ve got to be down at the Quidditch Pitch in ten bloody minutes.”  

“I don’t _care_ ,” Harry says hotly, shoving his feet into muddy shoes, impatient. “If Karkaroff’s done something to Hermione-”

“Harry,” Ron says, sudden.

 He shakes his head, eyes wide.

“Bloody _hell,_ how thick are we?” he says. “Harry, just use the _map_.”

Harry blinks at Ron stupidly for a moment before he understands.

When he does, he wants to _kick_ himself.

_Of course._

Grunting, Harry lifts his mattress upward, just enough to grab at the unassuming parchment that’s folded there, between the frame and his bed.

The Marauders Map, gifted to him in third year by Fred and George, on the occasion of his first, admittedly unauthorised, visit to Hogsmeade village.

A thin layer of dust has accumulated over its edges, and Harry blows across it, soft, before reaching for his wand and jerking his head over his shoulder, scanning for his housemates.

As good fortune would have it, he and Ron are the last remaining.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Harry murmurs, and he taps at the heart of the blank paper.

The map comes to light slowly, then all at once, black ink sinking into the yellow, the whole of Hogwarts coming to _life,_ comprised of elegantly labelled classrooms and lakes, tiny footprints active as everybody moves, and he is struck, not for the first time, with the sheer brilliance of it, the _magic_.

Harry sees Dumbledore, pacing in his study, looping letters marking him out.

Neville has just arrived in the Great Hall for breakfast, seated, it seems, between Parvati and Seamus.

Malfoy is flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, already en route to the Quidditch Pitch down the green, just past Hargid’s hut.

Ron leans over his shoulder, breath hot and rather unpleasantly odorous as he searches.

“C’mon, ‘Mione,” he mumbles. “Where are you?”

“She’s not in the Great Hall,” Harry concludes, having comprehensively scanned it for her name.

He frowns, eyes narrowing in on the Quidditch Pitch, where Cedric and Fleur are already heading to await the third and final task – his stomach drops at the thought of it.

“She’s not down at the Quidditch Pitch either,” he says.

“Blimey, she’s not even at the _library_ ,” Ron remarks.

“Where else could she be?” Harry says, anxiety properly setting in his chest, now. “I can’t even find Karkaroff.”

“What if he’s taken her off-map?” Ron is petrified. “Fuck, Harry.”

Impatient, Harry motions for Ron to shut it, searching over again, looking for the familiar letters –

“ _Harry,_ ” Ron says, not, it seems, having registered his request.

“Shush,” Harry says. “I’m concentrating.”

“No,” Ron shakes his head, frantic. “Harry, look. I _found_ her.”

Harry snaps up to look at him.

Ron looks very pale through his glasses, the picture of befuddlement.

“Where?”

 Slowly, Ron raises a single finger.

It lands on a little room by the Dungeons- one Harry has never been to before, can’t _recall_ ever hearing of.

 _Room 7_ , it is called.

And inside, true to Ron’s word, Hermione Granger is perfectly still.

Relief sends blood rushing to his dead, renders him dizzy, light-headed – but it _stops_.

Because she is not alone.

By her side, pacing here and there, footsteps long, lingering on the parchment –

“ _Professor Riddle_ ,” Ron says, stunned. “Is that his _room_? What the hell is she doing in there?”

Harry doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t particularly _have_ a good one.

He frowns down at the map, at the proximity between the two, and he wonders.

Because after _yesterday –_ Hermione’s smile as _thin_ as her veiled accusations-

After the way she positively _bolted_ after class, the moment she could, _pale,_ rattled-

Harry can’t think why she might have wound up there, now, with him.

He swallows, uneasy.

“Look,” Ron says. “I don’t know _what’s_ going on, but if you don’t head down to the Great Hall now you’ll miss breakfast.”

“Honestly, Ron, I cannot tell you how much I don’t care about _breakfast_ right now.”

“Yeah, I know you don’t. But I do. What would Hermione say if you went off into Karkaroff’s death trap without at least having a bit of toast and pumpkin juice?”

Harry sighs.

“Ron, if Hermione’s in trouble-”

“I’ll find her,” Ron interrupts, and there is something _strong_ in his voice, firm, that has Harry only nodding.

“Alright,” he allows, folding the Map closed and handing it over to Ron, albeit reluctantly. “Be quick, won’t you?”

Ron claps a hand across Harry’s shoulders, even as he slips the parchment into his front pocket.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’m going to find Hermione, and you’re going to stay alive. Yeah?”

Harry studies his face.

Ron’s hair is ruffled, the red bright in the morning sun, and his laces are undone.

He isn’t laughing.

For once, Ron isn’t laughing at _all_.

Harry’s throat is dry and grating when he nods.

“Deal.”

* * *

 

Hermione does not know where she is.

For a moment, she is entirely unconcerned by this predicament.

She has more pressing things to think about, after all, like how terribly _warm_ she feels, blankets drawn in close around her, pillow soft under her head.

How it is dark, too dark to be morning, and so she needn’t rise yet, in any case.

How very intoxicating, _inviting,_ the scent that envelopes her where she lies is.

And so she lets her eyes _close_ , lets herself sink deeper into the mattress, tries to navigate her mind’s way back to that wonderful dream of hers, the one with her friends at the dinner table, _laughing_ , always just a bit too hard at nothing in particular.

The mild sound of a clearing throat has her eyes snapping open, back straightening as she bolts _upward_ in bed.

Because Merlin, it is a distinctly _masculine_ sound, low, deep, and that means she _isn’t_ in her dormitory, couldn’t possibly be.

That means, she is not alone.       

“Do take it easy, won’t you?”

She blinks, as petrified as she is positively bewildered, as she takes in _Professor Riddle,_ his hair dripping wet, still, from a shower, and freshly combed through, standing by a rather crowded desk littered with flickering candles and fastening the buttons on his white sleeved shirt.

“ _Professor_?”

She barely whispers it, head _whirling,_ because what on _earth_ is she doing _here_ , with _him –_

Riddle’s eyes are bright with amusement as they flit over hers, though his jaw tightens.

“I believe I asked you to call me Tom whilst you’re in my quarters,” he says.

_My quarters?_

Hermione hesitates, starts to frown, and she opens her mouth to protest, to ask what he _means_ -

And it _hits_ her.

Everything does, flooding her mind, her senses, all in one.

Karkaroff and Snape, huddled in the closet and _whispering_ things she deeply wished she hadn’t heard at all. The Dark Mark, clear as _anything_ and carved into Snape’s arm. Running through the castle until her lungs were screaming, _begging_ her to stop. _That_ door, his door, number 7, by the dungeons. Professor Riddle. A hand on her knee.

 _His_.

She turns red.

“Oh.”

Riddle chuckles, shakes his head.

“You can wipe that horrified look from your face. It is _perfectly_ alright, I assure you.”

He has finished fastening his shirt buttons, now, though he leaves the last open at the bottom of his neck, undone, the curve of his collarbone exposed.

“ _Merlin_ , S- Tom,” she remembers, though saying it feels like something odd, intimate, even, and she cannot meet his eyes. “I- goodness, I shouldn’t have stayed here, I don’t know what on _earth_ I was thinking. I can only _apologise_.”

“There is no need,” he says, and he laces his fingers through his damp hair, parting it rather smartly as he surveys her.

“You were in no condition to be wondering about the castle last night, Hermione,” he sniffs. “I take it you slept well?”

She flushes.

After all of the frustrating, amusing, fruitful, _awful_ conversations she has had with Professor Riddle, small talk about how _well_ she slept feels most bizarre indeed.

“Very, actually. And, and you? Did you-”

She pauses; whips her head around the room, takes in how very _small_ it is, the noted _absence_ of another bed.

“Sir- Tom, have I- is this _your_ bed?”

She is almost s _hrill_ now.

Riddle grins.

“Quite so,” he shrugs. “Don’t worry. I didn’t quite feel the need to sleep. It was no inconvenience.”

“You didn’t feel the _need_ to sleep?” Hermione says, stunned. “That’s- that’s _ridiculous_! Everybody needs to sleep. Goodness, I’m sorry, how could I ever- how could you _let_ me-”

Riddle puts his hands up, rather entertained, as it seems.

“You really do just _wake up_ this highly strung, don’t you?” he drawls.

Hermione folds her arms _tight_ across her chest, indignant.  

“I am not _highly strung_ ,” she says hotly. “I’m surprised, is all, and _duly_ concerned, and besides, today is the _Tournament_ -”

“Indeed, it is,” he says smoothly. “It’s a good job you’re finally awake. We’re rather dangerously close to missing it, you know.”  

Hermione _stiffens_.

“What?” she demands, heart pounding, because Merlin, she hasn’t spoken to _Harry_ yet, hasn’t warned him-

“Indeed. I’d say you’ve certainly missed breakfast at this point, more’s the pity. I’m due to place the Cup quite imminently,” he muses rather casually.

“ _Merlin_.”

Hermione _flings_ her legs over the side of the bed, and they clutter rather gracelessly to the floor, weak, still, from sleep, and she _staggers_ -

Riddle catches her elbow, steadying her, and he is _close_ and he smells of soap and she _shivers_.

 She absolutely does not care to think about why.

“Didn’t I tell you to take it easy, Hermione?” he murmurs.

 His mouth looks terribly _soft_ in the candlelight.

“I thought it was only _Tom_ , now,” Hermione swallows. “Doesn’t that mean you can’t tell me what to do at this minute?”

Riddle’s eyes linger on hers for a long while before his lip quirks _up_ , fashioning his mouth into a terribly disarming, lopsided smile.

“I should think I would be a fool to think you would ever simply do as I say, Hermione, no matter what it is you’re calling me,” he says, and her lips _part_ , because she does not _expect_ it.

Because he says it like a compliment, and she _feels_ it as though it is a particularly lovely one.

Because his eyes are unbearably bright, and it is as painful and as soothing as beholding the morning _sun_.

His fingers are still gentle at her arm.

She swallows.

“Why?” she says, voice terribly hoarse. “Why ask me to call you Tom?”

A strange look contorts his features, now, and he wets his lips, _hesitates_.

He doesn’t _know_ , she thinks; a question he _can’t_ answer, though of course, he won’t say it.

He never would say it.

“Normally, I rather don’t care for it,” he says at last. “My name.”

He does not elaborate, does not say _why_ he doesn’t care for it, usually. Does not say why he did not mind it last night, does not mind it this morning.

She waits for him to, anyway, with curious eyes, until it is apparent that he does not intend on speaking further at all.

In the end, she only nods.

“You will check?” she asks rather meekly. “In the task, I mean. You will check for Dark Magic?”

Riddle simply blinks.

“I told you that I would, didn’t I?”

She exhales, long, hard, and nods.

“I don’t know what I should do now,” she admits it like it is a secret, and she supposes, in some sense, it is. 

Riddle studies her for a moment, and a beat later, his free hand falls to her shoulder, grip only loose, gentle, and something _stammers_ in her chest, but she does not look away, because this is _important._

This is for Harry.  

“Now, you join your friends in the audience,” he says calmly. “You speak nothing of what you saw last night. If, per chance, you encounter Professor Snape or Karkaroff, you say _nothing_ , and you ensure that you are not alone. You leave the rest to me, Hermione, do you understand? Potter is in _my_ hands now.”

Hermione bites her lip.

It is a sensible course, she supposes, but that does not mean she doesn’t _detest_ it.

The part where she says nothing, does nothing.

But he is right.

It will do Harry no _good_ for her to attempt more.

Besides, he is _safe_ now.

Professor Riddle will see to that.

He _can_ see to that- Hermione believes it entirely.

She has _seen_ what he can do, how he understands the Dark, how effortlessly he could counter it, without his wand, without a word.

He can, and he promised that he will.

He _promised_.

And his eyes are too wide, jaw too set, to leave _room_ for any doubt as to the absolute _sincerity_ of that promise.

She breathes in, even as she _trembles_.

“Alright.”

Riddle smiles, now, the white of his teeth glinting in the candlelight, and it is inexplicable, truly, the way that the look of it takes something _heavy_ off her chest, makes her feel light, somehow.

Perhaps that is the reason she finds herself leaning _in_ , now.

Or perhaps it is merely because she finds she is _tired_ , still, and he is warm.

Because he is helping Harry, now, has promised he will help him, and that is _enough_.

Enough that she doesn’t _care_ about his troubling tendency to _snap_ , in class; doesn’t _care_ that he can go from warm to ice cold in a second _flat_ , or whether he is _Professor Riddle_ or whether he is _Tom_.

She shouldn’t, of course, but that is beside the point.

It is beside the _point_ , because he does not shift away.

He does not move at _all_.

She can see the rise and fall of his chest, now; his eyes curiously black, and his lips are parted, face _flushed_ , perhaps for the first time Hermione can recall.

She is too close, now, and she needs to _change_ that.

 _He_ needs to change that.

Their eyes _lock_ , and he swallows, hard.

There is a knock on the door.

There is a _knock_ on the door, and Hermione blinks, hazy, as though it is only _now_ that she is truly waking up, stepping back and whirling around, eyes narrowing at the source of the noise, out in the corridor.

If Riddle is similarly dazed, he does not show it.

The man appears unfairly _composed_ , eyes merely drifting, lazy, toward the door.

His hands have not moved, did not even _tremble_ at the noise. They merely remained, utterly _unapologetic_ for where they rest, one at her arm, the other her shoulder, almost as though the pair of them are due to start _dancing_ at any moment, now.

“I expect you should get that,” she clears her throat, determinedly looking anywhere but at him.

“Rather.”

He purses his lips, studying her too intently, and she traces over her lip with her tongue, heart _still_ pounding.

She hesitates, wants to _say_ something-

“Sir?”

She jolts, because she knows that voice, muffled behind the door, knows it _anywhere_.

“ _Ron_?” she hisses, though how the boy managed to _find_ the place is beyond her.

It is distinctly unlike him to familiarise himself with the whereabouts of his Professors’ quarters.

Riddle looks somewhat exasperated, now, as he moves for the door, leaving Hermione feeling rather cold rather _suddenly_.

“Wait,” she murmurs, catching his wrist, and he pauses, eyes flitting down to her fingers where they grip him there.

“Whatever for?” he says coolly.

“I- he’ll see me,” she stumbles, “In _here_.”

“I expect he will,” Riddle says, calm, distinctly _unbothered_.   

She looks at him with wide eyes, _imploring_ him to understand why that might be potentially problematic without having to expressly articulate it.

He only grins, shaking his head.

“I fear you worry too much, _Hermione_ ,” he murmurs, and before she can say another word, he is jerking the door open unceremoniously.

The window into the corridor, sure enough, reveals Ron, standing with his hand up, ready to knock again.

“Professor!” he is panting, cheeks pink, and, at the sight of Hermione, the ruffled _mess_ she must look, fresh from bed, has his eyes awfully wide.

“Weasley,” Riddle drawls, eyebrows raised. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I, uh,” Ron hesitates, eyes darting between Riddle and Hermione. “I wanted to hand in my essay.”

He fishes in his pocket, pulling a rather crumpled paper from its depths.

“Your essay?” Riddle says, unimpressed. “Quite. You may leave it on my desk with the rest of your classmates, as per my instructions. Naturally.”

“Right,” he says thickly. “I’ll just- do that, then. You, uh, coming, Hermione?”

It is precisely at _this_ point, she thinks, that Hermione goes from pink to an unflattering shade of scarlet.

“Of course,” she says, hasty. “I was only- I was _only_ -”

Ron will understand, of course, once she’s explained.

Once he knows about Snape.

“Speaking to me about why it is that she has not handed in her own essay, this morning,” Riddle finishes, ever smooth, and Hermione frowns, because he must _know_ that Ron already knows as much about Karkaroff as she herself had-

She hesitates.

  _Of course_ , he does know that.

But he is a _Professor,_ and that makes Karkaroff a colleague.

This- what he is doing, for Harry, her, is _dangerous_ , for him.

This requires discretion, secrecy.

 _Of course_ he can’t very well risk explaining the whole thing to Ronald Weasley in a _public_ corridor precariously close to the Slytherin Common Room.

Ron’s brows furrow, unconvinced; as though he finds it impossible to believe in earnest that Hermione would ever fail to hand in homework.

Hermione, however, finds herself _gasping_ , struck with the distinctly unpleasant realisation that Riddle’s excuse for her presence isn’t entirely unfounded.

“Oh, _Merlin_ ,” she groans. “I’m ever so sorry, I can’t _believe_ it myself- but I think I’ve left my essay in the _library_ somewhere.”

His eyes flick over hers, something like amusement touching his features, softening them.

“Yes, you’ve just told me that, Miss Granger,” he says politely. “No matter. As your work has been quite excellent throughout the year I shall not penalise you this once.”

Hermione starts at that, surprised, somewhat, and flattered, though she can hardly tell how sincere he is being now.

“Oh. Oh, _thank_ you, Tom.”

His lip quirks up again then, and Ron is _staring_ at her.

“No matter,” he says. “Out of interest, though, Granger, tell me, what _was_ your response?”

There it is, then.

That _curiosity_ , burning in his eyes, the same that she had recognised in him his very first lesson, expectant as he looks at her.

“What, you want her to just _recite_ it all?” Ron says, incredulous, though Hermione thinks perhaps she might be able to, if she had a moment to think.

“ _That_ will hardly be necessary,” Riddle says, and he looks at her, expectant. “What was it, then, Granger? Can a witch or wizard of the Dark be reformed?”

Hermione hesitates, meets his eyes, even as they seem to _gleam_.

“It is complicated, of course, and I accept _entirely_ that even if there is some capacity for reform, that does not necessarily mean that it _will_ be successfully exercised, but- yes. Yes, I think so. I think it is always _possible_.”

She wonders if he will _laugh_ at her.

If he will accuse her of being _compromised_ by her naivety.

If he will point to the myriad of Dark witches and wizards who have never shown remorse, who took pleasure in the distressed testimonies of their victims at their trials before the Magical Law Council.

She wonders if he thinks that she is right.

He purses his lips, studying her, just a beat longer.

“How very Gryffindor of you,” he says, and Hermione hesitates, wonders what he _means_ -

Ron’s rough cough cuts her off.

“Right,” he says. “ _Anyway_. We’d better hurry up. Harry’s already down at the pitch.”

He gives Hermione a look that she knows is meant only for her, a look that says that Harry is unguarded from Karkaroff, but at a single glance from Riddle, it is evident that he’s heard the message as loud and as clear as she.

“Indeed,” he says. “You should make haste if you hope to wish him luck.”

“He’ll need a hell of a lot of _luck_ ,” Ron says, bitter.

Hermione spares a glance at Professor Riddle, hides something like a smile.

 Luck, she thinks, and a rather powerful Professor watching out for him.

“Of course,” she says. “I- we’ll see you there, then?”

She steps out onto the stone floors with Ron, head tilted back towards Riddle.

His face is blank, now, though that is nothing especially unusual.

“I expect so.”

“Great. Well then,” Ron says, impatient, and he is gripping her arm, now, half-pulling her down the corridor, even as she glances back at Room 7, at the man at the door who watches them go, face _blank_ , still, empty, though she could swear that a mere moment ago, that same face had been so alive with _something_. “C’mon, ‘Mione, we’ve got to _hurry_ , and I don’t know the way down from here-”

There is a slow creak that tells her that Riddle has closed the door, and the sound of it pulls at her chest, bothersome, utterly _uncalled_ for.

Ron tugs her onto a set of stairs, now, half-jogging upward, now, even as they moan and move under their feet, suspended in air.

It is only when they are breathless at the very top of the stairs that Ron turns to her, eyes narrow, face contorted.

“What the hell was that, then?” he says abruptly.

Hermione swallows, and, when the glances she throws over her shoulders satisfy her that nobody is within earshot, she leans in, _whispers_.

“Listen, Ron. I wasn’t really there to tell him about my homework. I _saw_ something awful- something to do with You Know Who, and there’s rather a lot to explain, but the point is, I’ve told him about what we know about Karkaroff, he has agreed to check the task for Dark Magic- he is going to _help_ Harry, Ron.”

Ron blinks slow as he registers what she’s saying, brow still furrowed.

“ _What_? Oh,” he says.

Hermione nudges his side with her elbow.

“ _Oh_?” she says, eyebrows raised. “This is _excellent,_ Ronald.”

“Sure it is,” he admits, though he doesn’t sound nearly as _thrilled_ , as relieved, as Hermione had imagined he might be. “Only-”

“Only what?”

Ron’s eyes are narrow when he looks at her, now, concerned and _accusing_ in equal measure.

“Why didn’t you come back to the Common Room last night?”

Hermione turns pink, opens her mouth, _heated_ , defensive, but he goes on before she can say a word, demanding.

“Why didn’t you come back, and why’d you just call _Professor Riddle_ fucking _Tom?_ ”

* * *

 

Harry is sitting between Fleur and Cedric on the damp of grass of the Quidditch Pitch, trying rather valiantly not to look at the colossal maze of impossibly high hedges of dark green that has been carved overnight in the place of the forest that normally stretches out far beyond the parameters of the Pitch.

“A maze,” Fleur had said upon first beholding it, thin and immaculately groomed brows raised, unimpressed. “Is zis _all_?”

Cedric had only swallowed hard, face quite pale.

“Excellent,” he’d grinned, because he _always_ grinned, though his voice was uncharacteristically high. “I _love_ confined spaces.”

Harry had jerked his head over to look at the other boy.

“You’re claustrophobic?”

Cedric had only shrugged, though the horror-struck look on his face, the frozen smile, answered Harry all on its own, and he felt a pang of sympathy for the boy, this fierce, futile _need_ to protect him from this, somehow.

Now, all that is left to them is to wait as the Professors arrive and the audience accumulate in the stands, the band jarringly jovial on this dreary morning, and boasting banners, boldly coloured and bearing each of their names.

That, and the arrival of the notably absent Durmstrang Champion and his Death Eater mentor.

Harry wonders if Karkaroff is briefing him.

Wonders if Krum, the boy who had endeared himself to Harry and Ron with a steady supply of firewhisky and merry banter at the Yule Ball, is taking pointers on how to kill Harry right now.

He shivers, forcing the pair of them from his mind and narrowing his eyes, instead searching for the familiar, uneven walk of Ron coming down the grass hill towards them, for Hermione’s quintessential brisk march, mind fixed on the Marauders Map, this morning- on Hermione and Professor Riddle, side by side in ‘Room 7’.

“Potter.”

He jolts, blinking.

Professor Riddle is standing over him.

“Sir?”

Harry frowns, jumps to his feet, a question about Hermione on his lips- though he supposes interrogating him about that would entail admitting to the existence of the Marauders Map to a Hogwarts Professor- something that Fred and George, and, in his time, Lupin, had warned him fiercely against.

“Professor Riddle,” Cedric says mildly. “What brings you here?”

“Mr Diggory,” Riddle inclines his head. “Miss Delacour. As you’ll soon be told, your task today entails retrieving the Triwizard Cup from somewhere in the maze. I’ve just placed the Cup in position and ensured that everything is -in order.”

Fleur closes her eyes, concentrating rather hard as she nods.

“Any chance you’ll tell us where?” Harry says wryly.

Riddle smirks, eyebrow inflected upward.

“I fear that would constitute _cheating_ , Mr Potter.”

“Shame that,” he quips.

“Quite,” Riddle says briskly. “In any case, Potter, if I could have a word about your essay before the task commences.”

He jerks his head, gesturing for Harry to step aside with him for a moment.

Harry hesitates for a moment, because of course, he wouldn’t be all that shocked if he’s wrong, but he could swear Riddle said he was off the hook in that respect yesterday.

At the _intent_ look in the Professor’s eyes, though, Harry finds himself merely nodding.

“Ah- the essay. Sure, yeah,” he mutters, and Riddle’s arm shadows his back as he guides him around the curve of the maze until they have reached a somewhat quiet, shaded corner, though Cedric and Fleur are still very much within view.  

“Professor-” Harry begins, at the same time as Riddle says ‘Potter’, and Harry falls silent, simply looking at his teacher, achingly inquisitive.

“Nervous, Potter?” Riddle says quietly.

“Uh- yeah,” he says, because, of course, he is, to put it negligently mildly.

Quite probably, he will die today, or at least, come close.

Quite probably, a Death Eater in social camouflage will give it a good shot.

So yeah, he supposes he is _nervous_.

“You needn’t be,” Riddle says shortly, eyes glinting. “I have checked the course this morning, and everything is quite in _order_.”

His eyes are _saying_ something, now, something else, something _more_ –

“You needn’t fear any trouble,” Riddle continues, with a cough. “From fellow competitors or otherwise.”

Harry frowns for only a moment before he catches _on_ , and he wants to _laugh_ because _of course._

That’s it, then.

The reason Hermione was in that room this morning.

The reason Riddle is speaking like this, now, _slow_ , each word heavy with meaning, _imploring_ him to understand.

Of course.

Professor Riddle _knows_.

He clears his throat, heart hammering, and he needs to _test_ this theory, to know for sure that Riddle is saying what Harry hopes he is saying.

“That’s a relief, Sir,” he says thickly. “I was concerned this task might be _particularly_ dangerous, see.”

 Riddle surveys him for a lingering moment before he puts Harry’s mind and chest at ease.

“I know.”

Harry draws in a staggered breath.

“Thanks,” he says, and he _means_ it, because Merlin, he doesn’t know what’s gone on with him and Hermione the past few days, _weeks_ , even, but here he is, now, on _their_ side, for no reason whatsoever.

 _Harry’s_ side.

Riddle inclines his head.

“It is only my job,” he says, some peculiar edge to his voice, Harry thinks.

Before he can say anything more, the Professor has turned away, a whirl of robes catching the wind behind him as he makes for the staff’s spectator’s area without so much as a ‘good luck’ and ‘goodbye’.

He stares after him, taken aback, somewhat, though he supposes he shouldn’t be.

Riddle never has never been one for empty pleasantries.

* * *

 

Hermione leans into the wind over the great wooden ledge of the stadium, peering as Harry, Cedric, Krum and Fleur huddle around Madam Maxime, around _Karkaroff_ , pale and haggard and _uncomfortably_ close to Harry, in their truck-suits as they offer some final sage words before the clock starts, and the first to find the Cup in this nightmare of a maze that has transformed the landscape will end it all, win, as Maxime announced, bellowing magnified across the bleachers.

This _task_ , this Tournament.

She shivers, exchanges a tense look with Ron even as they both hold their breath, waiting.

It had taken her the better part of their half-run from the dungeons to the Quidditch Pitch to explain herself.

To tell him that, no, Professor Riddle had never performed Legilimency on her, that she had been _wrong_.

To tell him that, yes, she _had_ stayed in his quarters that night, but only out of sheer exhaustion, of fear.

To tell him that Professor Snape is a _Death Eater_ , and Dumbledore _knows_.

To confess that she had come _undone_ when she found out, beside herself, at a loss for words, never-mind _actions_.

To tell him that Professor Riddle has given her his _word_ that Harry will not be harmed, not in this Tournament.

After, where only moments earlier, he had all but glared at her for calling the Professor by his first name, he is whining, _jealous_ that Riddle has not asked _him_ to do the same as yet, crying 'favouritism' and 'teacher's pet' and all the names that have followed Hermione every class she's been in. 

That is, of course, when he had finished being smug about Snape.

“ _Knew it,”_ he had almost shouted, the moment Hermione told him about the Mark on the Potion Professor’s arm, and she had winced as his voice bounced back to them off the Corridor walls, sending the stream of Beuxbatons students ahead of them glancing back their way, alarmed.

“Ron,” Hermione had hissed, but he was by no means done.

“I _told_ you, didn’t I? There’s something not right about him, _always_ was. He _looks_ like a bloody Dementor, for starters. What kind of person lets their hair get _that_ greasy, really, unless they _are_ a filthy Death Ea-”

She had clapped a hand across his mouth before he could engage too many more unwelcome ears.

“ _Shush_.”

“All the bloody signs were _there_ ,” Ron insisted, though she thought that he at least looked a _little_ rattled.

It took her a great deal of pleading and stern looks to convince him not to tell Harry.

“’ _Course_ we’ve got to tell him,” Ron had said at once when she suggested it, atop the hill that falls down to the Pitch, as though she was perfectly mad. “Are you kidding?”

“I’m not saying we _never_ tell him,” she had said, quick, under her breath, and she paused, pulling Ron aside for a moment, that they would not be overheard. “But he’s got _enough_ to worry about right now.”

“Reckon he’s got a _right_ to know now,” Ron retorted, and so they had bickered on, until _finally_ , resignedly –

“Harry’s gonna be fucking _furious_ that we didn’t tell him once this Tournament’s over.”

And so it was that, dizzy with relief, _frigid_ with anticipation, they had made their rather clumsy way down to the Pitch, where Harry and Cedric were pacing alongside one another, lips closed in tight lines, shaking, and they will not stop glancing up at the hedges towering over them, even as they rustle, promising some concealed danger.

As it happened, they did not even need to tell Harry about Professor Riddle and the promise.

Riddle, Harry had explained in a series of poorly coded _looks_ and murmurs, had seen to it already, though how on earth he managed to beat them down here was lost on Hermione.

They only hugged him, then, pulled him into this place where there is nothing but the three of them, and it was warm and it was _safe_ , and so they made him _promise_ that he will return to it, to them, and they _laugh_ and they joke about Harry and the others running in circles over and over for the remainder of the day until one of them stumbles upon the Cup, because, after all, it is only a _competition_ , now, only a silly competition, and _nobody stands a chance_ at killing Harry, Professor Riddle had _said_ so.

Only a competition, and so they clasped hands with Cedric, _smiled_ , wished him luck, even as the boy’s father, Amos, she thinks, climbs down from the stands to place his hands on his shoulders, to whisper something in his ear.

Only a competition, and so they wished Fleur well just the same.

Only a competition, and so when Viktor Krum arrived at the Pitch, Hermione spared him a nod, let him plant a soft kiss upon her cheek, and Ron clapped him over the back, made some Quidditch reference she didn’t understand.

Only a competition, and so when Madam Maxime took to announcing the details of today’s procedure- how Harry and Cedric, tied for first, would get a start ahead of Krum, and then he ahead of Fleur, in their race to find the Cup hidden in some secret location within by Professor Riddle- with no explanation given as to Professor Dumbledore’s noted absence, she thought _nothing_ of it, said _nothing_ to Harry, to Ron.

Only a wretched _competition_ , despite everything her uneasy heart is telling her, still.

And so when Maxime begins the count-down, a rather deliberately suspenseful process that takes them from ten to one, even as Filch sets off the starting canons a tad too late, and the maze _shudders_ in earnest, alive, splits _open_ through its heart, exposing a dark centre that goes on and in deeper than Hermione can see, inviting Harry and Cedric _in_ , and the procession of dragon-hide drums and golden instruments crafted from unicorn-horns swells with its merry, prematurely victorious melodies, she makes like the rest of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and she _applauds._

She lets herself laugh, bet on Harry, when Seamus starts quipping something like ‘may the best champion win’.

She laughs.

She smiles.

She claps, _vehemently_.

She lets Harry _go_ , eggs him on with the rest of them; with Karkaroff, watching through blank, black eyes.

She watches, as the twigs and the leaves knit themselves together behind Harry, _enclosing_ him inside this mystery maze.

She lets him _go_.

And if she is nauseous, she ignores it.

And if something feels terribly _off, profoundly_ amiss, forgotten, neglected, _ignored_ -

Hermione closes her eyes.

“He’ll be right,” Ron is saying, though he sounds so much farther away than he is. “It’s _Harry_. He’s only the bloody Boy Who Lived. He’s not about to be taken down by an overgrown garden.”

_The Boy Who Lived._

And oh, how Karkaroff must _despise_ him for it.

How Snape must.

How You Know Who must, more than anyone.

Perhaps that is why she feels so _ill_ , now.

Because perhaps Harry was the Boy Who Lived, all those years ago, in his home in Godric’s Hollow.

Perhaps he was the Boy Who Lived, in first year, with the Philosophers Stone and Professor Quirrell that parasitic _thing_ on the back of his head.

Perhaps he was the Boy Who Lived in third year, with the Dementors, with Professor Lupin, bones _snapping_ as his body constructed itself a new one, a _vicious_ one, in the light of the beaming moon.

Perhaps he will even be the Boy Who Lives, _today_ , with Karkaroff, and the maze.

But You Know Who is coming back, she knows that, now, heard it in the _fear_ that had Karkaroff trembling in a broom cupboard.

He has called for Karkaroff, he would call for Snape, and that can only mean that there are _others,_ too.

She thinks about what Professor Riddle said, that Harry will be safe in the Tournament.

It should comfort her, she knows, and Merlin, it _did_ , it _does_.

But it is _finite_ comfort, because it is a _finite_ undertaking.

Because, she thinks, something painful setting in her chest, Harry Potter cannot ever be safe, not _truly_.

He has a target on him, quite the literal one: the lightning bolt that she scarcely notices anymore, faint, but _famous_ , etched across his forehead.

He cannot ever be safe, and Hermione _knows_ that reality will set in, even the moment that this Tournament ends.

* * *

 

Harry is _used_ to confined spaces.

The Dursleys saw to that, and rather dryly, he finds himself wondering whether, should he manage to find the Cup, he’ll have them and their cupboard under the stairs to thank.

Still, that doesn’t mean it’s his idea of a great time, throwing himself through walls of harsh, scraping hedges even as they press in on both sides, threatening to _consume_ him entirely-

The pitch-black dark enveloping him, the deep smell of earth and dirt, is the proverbial cherry on top of the categorically _terrible_ cake.

Harry actually spent a good few minutes in the beginning staggering about and squinting uselessly before remembering that he was a wizard aptly armed with a wand, and that _Lumos_ was a spell that existed, and, as it happens, was rather well suited to such circumstances.

Distinctly grateful for Hermione’s absence, Harry had muttered the spell under his breath, and that flickering orb of warm light has been his guide ever since, saving him a great many close calls and disappearing only when he is forced to cast hexes at the roots that twist themselves around his ankles, travelling upward, pressing in on his stomach, his _lungs_.

He can’t see Cedric.

Hasn’t seen him at all, ever since this started.

Or _anyone_ , for that matter, but he isn’t particularly concerned about that.

He’s got no clue how _long_ he’s been here, racing against the raw strength, _agility_ , of the maze, and it is all the more impossible guess at whether he’s moved further into the maze, or whether he has merely been sprinting and stumbling up and down the same space over and over, only his own jagged breathing and the fierce rustling, s _napping_ of the hedges reassuring him that he’s not lost his sense of hearing.

It’s enough to make anyone panic, any heart race, stutter, _stumble_.

Nevermind somebody who’s claustrophobic and unaccustomed to being locked in cupboards.

“ _Reducto,”_ Harry mutters, whipping his wand towards the thick, muddy roots he spots, behind him, even as they make a surge forward for his leg, and mercifully, it _hits,_ and they seem to _scream_ as they curl back, retreat, even as he winces at the sound-

“ _Stupefy.”_

Harry jerks his head around, because that is not _him,_ and it feels as though it has been about an eternity since he’s last heard any sound that _wasn’t_ just him.

“ _Stop it. I am begging you, please, stop_!”

It’s a different voice, softly accented, barely more than a sob.

_Fleur._

She stumbles backward, and all at once, she is in Harry’s path, wand raised, eyes wide, and she is positively staring at something in front of her, _frantic_ , wand-arm trembling.

Harry hesitates, wonders if he should make his presence known –

“ _Stupefy!”_

There it is again, loud, _guttural_ , and a flash of red land on Fleur, square on the chest, and she is _falling_ even as Harry watches, frozen, utterly shocked, until the roots twist around her ankles, catching her, pulling her in, and her eyes are c _losed._

“Fleur,” Harry hisses, dropping to his knees beside her, even as the sharp bright of another’s _lumos_ falls across his face-

Harry’s chest _tightens._

It is _Krum_.

His wand is trained on Harry, firm, unwavering, and his jaw is tense- but that is not what sends Harry’s stomach _twisting_ , uneasy.

It is his eyes.

They are w _rong,_ somehow, _foggy_.

It is as though there is a layer of fine _mist_ coating the very surface of Krum’s eyes, a veil between he and Harry, masking him from the Bulgarian boy.

_Cursed._

By Karkaroff, he supposes, and just as Sirius had predicted.  

His heart sinks in his chest, and he wants to kick himself for being so readily assured that everything would be absolutely _peachy_ now that Professor Riddle _knew,_ that Karkaroff really couldn’t try a _thing._

Krum has already disposed of Fleur, he supposes, as instructed.

But she is not really his target.

She is collateral damage.

Harry, on the other hand, cannot only be taken by the maze.

Harry, he knows, must die.

 _Now_ -

Harry holds his breath, wand loose in his hand.

Krum has not cursed him yet, and that alone has his brow furrowed, because Harry’s reaction time has by no means been stellar.

He is vulnerable, too, crouched between Fleur and the hedge that is tugging at her, getting a firmer grip, even as Harry hesitates between training his wand towards them or Krum.

“ _Harry Potter.”_

It is barely a whisper, a murmur only to himself, and his voice, too, is _distorted,_ somehow _, barely_ his own, and Harry flinches-

Krum lowers his wand.

He _lowers his wand,_ and he turns, and he is moving _away_ from Harry, now, stalking through the maze without giving him a second look, and Harry is entirely _gobsmacked_ , heart pounding hard against his chest.

Fleur _stirs_ , now, forcing him into the moment, and the roots have truly taken her, now, grip _tight_ , and they are pulling her in and _under._

With a jolt, Harry scrambles for her wand, still tight in her fingers, and he directs it to the skies, to send out a warning, a cry for help.

“ _Periculum.”_

He allows himself a sigh of sheer relief as, sure enough, red sparks erupt from her wand, exploding like fireworks into the sky, well above the cloud that sits over the maze.

“ _Stupefy.”_

Harry’s head snaps up as he hears it again, the familiar, deep rumbling of Krum, _cursing,_ and what is more, a voice, a devastatingly _familiar_ one.

“Viktor? What on earth are you-”

_Cedric._

Harry doesn’t think about it, about anything, before he takes off running.

“Cedric!” he bellows, not caring whether it’s a terribly daft idea to go revealing his position to Krum, never-mind alerting the rather sentient maze, either.

“ _Protego,”_ he hears, frantic, throaty, even as Krum tries for it again.

_“STUPEFY.”_

“ _Cedric!”_

Harry rounds what he bloody well hopes is a _new_ corner, panting, and he takes it in:

Cedric, an angry split running down his leg, blood _dripping,_ even as he keels over, wand still up, a faint shield the only bar between he and Krum, who is rounding on him, pressing _forward,_ a perfect scowl contorting his features.

“ _Krum!”_ Harry bellows, and in an instant, he is between them, wand trained between Krum’s eyes even as his chest rises and falls, even as Cedric draws in a breath behind him, murmurs his _name_ , pure relief, disbelief, colouring his tone, and his heart stutters at the sound of it despite everything else. 

All of three seconds pass before Krum’s scowl _drops_ along with his wand-arm.

Harry staggers on his feet, perplexed as he is grateful-

“ _Expelliarmus!”_

Cedric is scrambling to his feet behind him, face wide with panic, _anger_ , and the spell only narrowly misses Krum, even as he only _stands_ there, seemingly indifferent to the fact that he’s being targeted at all.  

“ _Stupefy!”_ Cedric shouts again, and this time, his wand is trained true, and Krum shudders, falling back, if only a step.

“ _Stop,”_ Harry roars, grasping Cedric firm by the wrist. “Cedric, he’s bewitched. He’s _bewitched,_ do you understand? Cedric. _Look at me_.”

He is nearly bellowing, now, and he forces a hand under Cedric’s chin, forcing the boy to meet his eyes in the dark, and in the light of his _lumos_ , he takes in every bit of fear, unapologetic, open on his face.

“Bewitched?” Cedric shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

Harry hesitates, turning back to look at Krum, _still_ where he stands.

It doesn’t make _sense._

Because Krum is _Karkaroff’s,_ and Karkaroff wants Harry dead, pursuant to his Master’s orders.

That much is obvious, _simple_.

What’s less obvious is why, at the mere sight of Harry, he drops his wand, even as he tries as he might to _curse_ Fleur and Cedric into oblivion.

Harry swallows.

He thinks of what Professor Riddle said.

That he needn’t fear any trouble from fellow competitors or otherwise.

Krum is _bewitched_ , there is no doubt about it, by somebody powerful, undoubtedly.

But if he _is_ bewitched, it is not to kill Harry.

Hesitant, _testing,_ Harry clears his throat, deliberately gazes into Krum’s clouded eyes.

“Drop your wand,” he says, voice clear, commanding.

There is a moment where everything is quiet.

Cedric, Krum, the maze.

There is a moment when nothing happens, and he feels rather foolish indeed for even thinking of it.

Then he hears something, breaking through the tense silence.

Then he _sees_ it, and his heart jumps, because he is _right,_ and he doesn’t know whether he ought to be thrilled or alarmed.

Krum’s fingers loosen around his wand, send it clattering to the earthy floor.

For a beat, Cedric and Harry only _stare_ at it, each as bewildered as the other.

“What was _that_?” Cedric says, at last, and Harry shakes his head, eyes wide as he turns to him-

He freezes.

Because something, deep in the hedges that tower over them, is _stirring,_ creaking, crackling, waking _up_.

“Cedric,” he says, a warning.

Then the _wind_ starts.

* * *

 

It is as fierce as it is sudden, the biting cold air that tugs at them, pushes them _back, in,_ deeper into the maze, and the roots at the earth that were dormant for so long _snap_ themselves into life, grabbing, greedy, at Cedric’s hurt leg, even as he _howls_ in pain-

“ _Reducto!”_ Harry yells over the roar of the wind, and the roots recoil from the other boy, if only for a moment.

Harry grabs Cedric by the shoulders, pulls him along, away from the roots, away from the _wind,_ even as the space around them grows _smaller,_ and Cedric splutters for air-

Krum does not move.

Still won’t move.

“Run,” Harry yells, so close to his face that he can feel the boy’s steady breath on his skin. “ _Run_ , Viktor. Get out of here!”

Krum blinks, then, and, even as Harry says the words, he nods, takes off _sprinting,_ tearing through the maze, away from them, away from everything.

“Harry,” Cedric croaks.

“I know,” Harry pants. “I know, Cedric, we’ve just got to keep _going_ -”

“Harry.” Cedric is shaking his head, determined, and he jerks his head firm to their left. “ _Look.”_

Harry’s heart is _caught_ in his throat.

Because to their left is a clearing, a _space_ in the midst of this chaos, where the wind is not tearing through the hedges, warping its shape.

To their left is _light,_ soft, beckoning.

To their left, is blue light, emitting from something small, _precious_.

 _The Triwizard Cup_.

They are upon it before Harry can even register that they are running, both of them, absolutely charging for the sorry artefact that started _all_ of this, eyes _fixed_ upon it, feet pounding alongside their hearts until it is _right here,_ even as they come to a jarring halt, lungs screaming and feet aching and faces adorned with slices and dirt, but none of that _matters_ because it is close enough to _touch,_ and beautiful, of course, _elegant,_ almost a clear sort of blue, and Harry imagines how _proud_ they would be:

Ron, Hermione - Professor Riddle.

His parents, if they were watching, somehow.

If they could.  

He swallows, eyes flickering, rather guilty, to Cedric’s face.

Because he supposes that Xavier, Peter, Nora, would be so proud of him, too, if he were the one to bring the Cup home.

He supposes that Amos Diggory wouldn’t stop beaming for _days._

He supposes that Cedric, at the start of the year, at Dumbledore’s very _first_ speech about this blasted Tournament, decided that he _wanted_ this.

Marched up to the Goblet of Fire with his fingers crossed to put his name in the hat.

Harry never decided that.

Never _wanted_ this.

He has no right to want it _now_ , he thinks.

Though perhaps, he has every right.

Perhaps, he has _earned_ it.

Their eyes lock.

“Take it,” Cedric is _rasping,_ throat raw. “You _saved_ me, take it.”

Harry inhales sharply, studying his _face._

How broken Cedric looks, defeated.

How _frightened_.

How much he only wants to leave this place, to go back out into the light, where there is music.

Where his friends are waiting with banners and grins and flasks concealing firewhisky within.

His heart ac _hes._

Slowly, he shakes his head.

 “No,” he says, suddenly _adamant._ “You’re the real Hogwarts champion, Cedric, everyone knows it- me most of all.”

Cedric snorts.

“I’d be dead a few times over now if it weren’t for you,” he says, weak voice still somehow so terribly _strong. "Take it."_

The air hisses around them, and Harry flinches.

The storm of wind is upon them, the hedges screeching as they shrink down and in, and Cedric’s breath quickens, and he closes his _eyes_ -

There is nothing else for it.

Urgent, Harry places a hand over Cedric’s cheek, soft on the scratches that run the length of his temple to chin, and he implores the other boy to _look_ at him.

“C’mon, then,” he says, shouting over the noise that threatens to deafen them, now. “There’s only one way to finish this, now.”

Cedric narrows his eyes, mouth open, as though he means to ask Harry what on earth he’s on about, until his face sharpens with _recognition_ , understanding.

Clenching his jaw, Cedric nods.

“On three,” Harry yells, and Cedric’s hand is _laced_ in his, now, warm, a slice of comfort in the chaos, and they hover by the Cup, not touching, not _yet._

“One,” Cedric grits his teeth. “Two.”

Harry closes his eyes, hand firm in Cedric’s.

“ _Three.”_

He _feels_ it, now, the sudden cold as the crystal touches his fingertips, the lurch of his gut as the world seems to turn upside down, and everything is s _pinning._

It seems they spin for rather a long while before they hit the ground with a nasty slam.

* * *

 

Harry is in a graveyard.

A particularly gloomy one, scattered crosses lopsided in the earth.

It wouldn’t be right to say that he hasn’t been here before, because he has.

He has, most nights these past few weeks.

He has, intermittently, since the summer, before the World Cup.

He is in a graveyard, and _of course,_ it makes sense that he might be dreaming.

It was rather a harsh landing, after all.

It is natural that he might have passed out.

Only-

Only he _isn’t_.

He isn’t, because his knees are _aching,_ ankle swollen, and he can feel the sharp sting of cool air cutting across the scratches that mark his face, his arms.

He isn’t, because _Cedric_ is beside him, sprawled on the ground and crawling to his feet, spluttering for air, winded from the fall.

He isn’t, because here, between them, is the _Cup,_ bright and glorious and discarded gracelessly on the soft dirt beneath them.

He isn’t dreaming, this time.

He isn’t fucking _dreaming_.

Everything in Harry goes _tense,_ now, shuts _down,_ and he doesn’t know how it’s possible to feel so utterly done, _dead, unconscious,_ with a heart hammering as adamantly, painfully, as his is right now.

“Harry?” Cedric is weary, spent, beside him. “Harry, where are we?”

Harry doesn’t answer.

Can’t-

Can’t say a _thing_.

“Is this part of the task?” Cedric goes on, and he has clambered to his feet, now, standing tall, hands on his hips as he surveys their surroundings with wide eyes, wand in hand.

Harry’s own feet feel suddenly unbearably _heavy_.

Gritting his teeth, he shifts in the dirt, neck craning.

He _chokes._

Behind them, as mammoth, as putrid, as it is in his nightmares, a _cauldron._

Cedric taps his knuckles over its side, brow furrowed, clinical, curious.

“What are we supposed to do with this, d’you think?”

Harry wants to be _sick_.

He shakes his head.

It is all that he can _manage_ to do, now.

Shake his head, cross his fingers, pray to _something_ , anything, anyone.

Cedric frowns, eyes flitting across Harry’s face, at the nameless _terror_ making itself home there.

“Harry, are you alright?”

Cedric is standing in front of a gravestone, now.

A _devastatingly_ familiar one.

It is towering and skeletal, and more _magnificent_ than any other in this forsaken place.

The grim reaper, clutching a stone that spells out the name of the man who lies there, the name he never _could_ read, in his dreams.

Harry’s throat is too _dry_ for him to swallow, and he only leans in, squints through his fogged glasses, that he might _finally_ make out those last letters-

“ _Tom,_ ” Cedric says aloud, reading across from left to right. “ _Tom Riddle, 1905 to 1943_.”

He whistles, low under his breath, and it is too _loud_ in the quiet.  

“That’s a short life, isn’t it?” his voice is soft, sad, even. “I don’t suppose he’s related to our Professor Riddle?”

_Tom Riddle._

_Riddle._

Harry wishes _desperately_ that his mind would cease this nonsense, this blank _static_ , this sheer panic that has him rooted to the spot and feeling as though he’s about to throw up and never _stop_.

It does him no good.

Because something is _sinking_ in him, deep, _terrible,_ though he does not quite understand it, not yet.

Something is _screaming,_ telling them to _run,_ and to run _now,_ because if they wait-

If they _wait_ -

_Tom Riddle._

It doesn’t mean anything, _can’t_ mean anything.

Riddle is a common name, after all, a Muggle one, and this graveyard looks rather _mundane,_ after all.

Quintessentially _Muggle_.

But there is this feeling, now, something profoundly _jarring,_ telling him he is _wrong,_ so very _wrong._

“Cedric,” he clears his throat, voice barely more than a whisper. “Get back to the Cup.”

Cedric bites his lip, brows drawn in.

“Harry, what are you talking about?” he leans in, _worry_ marked across his face.

Harry wants to shout at him for it, to _command_ him to do as he says, that he will explain _later,_ that they are in _danger-_

That this is not a _game._

And so he opens his mouth, to do all of these things, and _more_.

To _save_ him, _them_ , from whatever it is that is _coming_.

Some other sound beats him to it.

The roaring of _flames,_ fierce, _angry_ , and it is _dread_ , and nothing more or less, that envelopes Harry now, _suffocates_ him, as he casts his eyes back to the cauldron, green fire alive underneath, ever loyal to his nightmare.

A _whimper_ escapes his lips – it is useless to try to stop it, now- and he searches for the sign, now, that it is all truly happening.

The light, flickering in the lonely hut, not a hundred meters from them.

“Harry,” Cedric says, urgent, hands falling to his, soft, warm, but it is useless.

Harry s _inks,_ into the dirt, onto his _knees,_ and he thinks he is saying something, still, over and over.

_Get back to the Cup get back to the Cup get back to the Cup get back to the Cup._

“Harry.”

Cedric kneels beside him, and Merlin, he really shouldn’t, he _can’t_ , he’s going to _die,_ they are both going to _die,_ but Harry cannot stop him, can’t seem to _tell_ him _-_

His scar _ignites._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! 
> 
> Sorry about the long-ish wait for this one! It was put together rather hastily (I feel like I'm making this disclaimer a lot, so perhaps we'll just assume it's been a rushed job as the general rule aha) so I do hope it's not too much of a mess to follow. 
> 
> I am so overwhelmed by the support that you guys have shown this story - I never imagined that Renatus might get anywhere near this many kudos, let alone comments, and I am so grateful to everyone who has contributed to that. The idea that people are reading and enjoying this is so wonderful to me! 
> 
> In particular, I want to thank those of you who have been letting me know your thoughts to each and every new chapter as I update. It's always so motivating, and I really do appreciate it more than I can say. 
> 
> I was so pleased to hear that last chapter constituted a favourite for many of you, too! 
> 
> I am so eager to hear what you think of this update! In particular, I was so uncertain as to how much of the Third Task to discuss, given I wasn't really changing all that much from canon, and we're all well familiar with what went down then, in the book and film respectively. I went with the version of the maze challenge portrayed in the film for no particular reason other than that it was more straight-forward, and I largely wanted to get the task over and done with so we can hurry along to the non-canon compliant stuff! Would love to hear your thoughts about whether you would've liked to see more/less of that. 
> 
> Sorry to leave it on something of a cliffhanger, too! 
> 
> I probably owe you a further apology, because we're not going to pick back up in the graveyard next chapter, either!
> 
> My hope is that the next chapter will be worth the extra wait, though. 
> 
> Because next chapter, finally, is going to be told entirely from Tom Riddle's perspective- 
> 
> And I have a feeling it is going to be a rather long one :) 
> 
> Until then! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and do let me know what you think!


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

 

It had been a distinctly dull half-century by anybody’s standards.

Not that he had been naïve enough to anticipate anything wildly different.

Tom Riddle had known what he was in for.

Had known in the sense that he accepted entirely that, until the deed was done, it was simply _unknowable_ precisely what the consequences may be.

They might have been so much better, yes, but so much categorically worse, too.

It did not matter.

It had never _mattered_ , since the moment he came to the resounding conclusion that it was _worth_ whatever collateral damage may come.

It was not a particularly taxing conclusion to reach.

Here was a way to cure _death_ ; to secure himself an eternity of life and glory, even as new generations of witches and wizards were born.

When they spoke their first words, dribbling from their chins in high-cribs, pretend wands swinging in their fingers, they would say only Lord Voldemort, his name, the one he had _chosen_ , and oh, their parents would be so proud.

He could _have_ that world, carve its very bones to his liking, construct its glittering foundations slow, careful, until every piece of it was made in his image, uncurtailed by his own bothersome mortality.

He could _have_ that world, and it would be his alone, because they, all of them, were ever and always too weak and too proper and too moronic to find him out.

It would be perfect.

Perfect, and all it would cost him was some morsel of his _soul._

He had nearly laughed aloud when he had discovered it, first, in _Secrets of the Darkest Art,_ because, Merlin knew, he’d not much use for that, anyway.

So Tom Riddle had not cared less for what might become of that part of his soul that was to be partitioned from the rest.

Whether it might feel.

Whether it might hurt.

His forever would be well worth it, in any case.  

That is not to say that he was not rather disappointed when, after paying a rather cathartic visit to his dear father in the dreary Little Hangleton, after the precisely executed ritual with Marvolo Gaunt’s ring of heavy black and gold, he found himself simply _blinking_ into dark and quiet.

He was even less impressed when this continued for approximately fifty-one years.

Not that he had counted.

Not that he had any _capacity_ to count, trapped in the confines of his grandfather’s ring.

It was a most disconcerting feeling, and he never quite grew accustomed to it enough that it became tolerable, more’s the pity.

It was perhaps best compared to that place one encounters between sleep and consciousness, whenever one is not yet entirely woken, not yet entirely lost in dreams; that nagging sensation that one really must enter the dream, or the world, in earnest, tugging, constant, _urgent,_ but it never stopped, never changed, and it was infuriating.

More than anything else, it was painfully _boring_.

Such, he supposed, was the life of a Horcrux.

He still doesn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse that he had retained his capacity to _think_.

Without it, of course, he might have been entirely oblivious as to his dismal predicament.

With it, at least he could imagine.

At least he could envision the utopian world that he, the _real_ he, was creating, secure in the knowledge, now, that he would never die.

He had not anticipated that he might ever see it, of course.

Still, he found himself rather disappointed by the distinctly un-utopian sight that greeted him, when, after half a century of tedious _nothing_ , he felt a _pull_ into something so bright it hurt his eyes, and it did not give in, and in an instant, he was falling.

His knees had hit the ground hard, lungs clawed for air, Marvolo’s ring clashing as it clattered down beside him, and the sheer shock of it – the realisation that he had knees, had lungs, had some tangible form, was enough to disorient him entirely.  

It was _his_ , too, he found, as he drew his hand along the familiar length of his jawline - though it felt _sharper_ , narrow, now - pulled his fingers through the same thick head of hair he had gripped at his whole life in exasperation over vexing texts in the library. 

He knew, of course, who was responsible, who _must_ be responsible, for this.

It was with a ravenous sort of vigour with which he had raised his eyes, searching for the formidable man whose body he had been torn from, whose immortality was contingent on his imprisonment; searching for something _glorious_ , the utopia he suffered ever so stoically for – searching for _Lord Voldemort_.

He can still taste the disappointment that had tinged his tongue when his gaze fell, instead, upon the broken shell of a person; the foul, pink and wrinkled creature, withered and frail as the curtains that he had always so loathed at Wool’s Orphanage, sat upon a hideous leather sofa in a wooden house that smelled of something rotten, bright eyes mere _slits_ on its face.

Still, he recognised him.  

At once, he recognised him.

“Dear god,” he had said, voice hoarse, and the sound of it, a _voice_ , his _own_ , was terribly deafening. “What have you done to us?”

The creature’s lip curled, then, bitter, defensive.

“ _I_ have survived,” it had hissed. “And it is Lord Voldemort, to you.”

* * *

 

Lord Voldemort had not been alone, there in that dismal, empty place.

He was accompanied by two men.

One was a rather young, rather handsome man, hair dark and eyes wild.

He introduced himself as Barty Crouch Junior.

The son of Barty Crouch, Ministry Official, Tom learned, and oh, how he wanted his father to know it.

To know that he was disillusioned with the tiresome rules that bound him, bound all of the wizarding world.

To know that he had been the one to find Lord Voldemort, to know that he was not defeated in earnest by the eleven-year-old Harry Potter in the dungeons of Hogwarts.

Crouch had tracked Voldemort down, four years ago, he’d said, proud, boasting, and he had not left his side since, though his dear father was none the wiser.

Tom liked him.

As much as Tom really liked anybody.

Barty Crouch Junior was _useful_ : physically strong, magically arrogant, and young enough to still be ambitious, to see the possibility of another world – the one that Tom Riddle had imagined, first, so long ago. But he is not clever enough to know what Tom _is_ , and Lord Voldemort, it seems, had the good sense not to tell him, to feed him some fanciful tale about how he had projected his sentience, mind, into Marvolo Gaunt’s ring, and he had swallowed it with gratitude.  

He told Tom that the year was _1994_ , that they had waited a long time indeed to meet him.

He looked rather disappointed when Tom simply blinked in response to this revelation, not particularly rattled by the fact that he was, in effect, pulled far into his own future.

The second man was decidedly less handsome and decidedly less young.

He was called Peter Pettigrew, and his features looked terribly squashed on his face, nose large and hooked and eyes beady, teeth a little too big for his face.

He did not say much at all, only mumbled the word ‘Master’ over and over, and his eyes were ever fixed on Voldemort’s, bright, doting, _frightened_.

He was a more recent addition, it seems, to this rather pathetic assembly of men, having only found Voldemort and thrown himself on his knees before him a number of months earlier.  

Lord Voldemort waited for the men to leave the room before he explained.

Tom heard everything, then.

How exceptional it had been, _he_ made been.

How there were more Horcruxes, many more, after the diary, after him.

How the Ministry had sunk to its knees, _begged_ him to run, enchanted by his potential.

How he had made a living in Borgin and Burkes, developed an affinity for the rare and the powerful, and the clients who were _ravenous_ for them.

How the oafs who had hung off his every word in school became servants, _Death Eaters,_ and Tom had smiled at the name, liked the way it sounded, rolling off his tongue.  

How the very giants had joined his cause, the werewolves, how _easy_ it had been to turn them away from the Light.

How everyone in the world knew the name Lord Voldemort, though they dared not _speak_ it, such was his power.

And then, he heard how it came undone, one night in a little village called Godric’s Hollow.  

He had thought it would be Albus Dumbledore.

He had thought it ever since the nosy Professor had narrowed his eyes over the Chamber of Secrets, had defended Rubeus Hagrid, the simpleton he had offered up, the perfect perpetrator.

Ever since he read in his fourth year that the meek Transfiguration Professor was feared by the great Gellert Grindelwald.

Suffice to say, he was unpleasantly surprised to learn that Lord Voldemort was instead bested by a baby who was yet to use a wand as anything more than an eating utensil.

Voldemort had tried to rationalise it, of course; had said something about a prophecy foreseeing his downfall on account of a child of this one’s precise description that Tom found rather wildly fanciful, if not altogether unconvincing.

It was Peter Pettigrew, in the end, who led him to the child.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort had told him, voice thicker, _stronger_ , courtesy of the simmering hatred underlying his words.

_Harry Potter._

Tom had tried to remember the Potters from Hogwarts.

No proud Pure Bloods came to mind; no academic contenders, no visionaries, nobody remotely important.

The best he could recall was some Ravenclaw girl praising a Potter’s name for the apparent gift that was Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion.

He was, naturally, livid.

“You allowed a _child_ to destroy you,” he had said, voice ice and fire all at once. “You have allowed a _child_ to do irreparable harm to everything that _I_ had planned - you’d better tell me that you’re joking. You’d better tell me that you’re joking right _now_.”

Lord Voldemort’s nostrils had flared at that, lips thinned, and on his disfigured form it was most unpleasant to behold.

“ _You_ planned nothing. You are nothing, is that understood? You are nothing more than the part of me that was _disposable_. I lost nothing when I lost you, I grew _stronger_ when I lost you.”

All of this was, of course, technically accurate.  

“And yet,” he’d replied, delicate, “you’ve gone to the trouble of freeing me of that rather stuffy ring of our dear grandfather’s. It’s not easy, is it, to alter the vessel of a Horcrux? Certainly, there was nothing said of it in even the darkest of books. Tell me, are you in the habit now of going to such lengths for disposable things? Perhaps that, _my Lord_ , is why you’ve done such a shoddy job at staying alive.”

The thing that he was, had become, stared at him, then, chest heaving, some nameless anger, _helplessness_ , contorting its deformed features.

“Oh,” Tom had breathed, sharp, understanding, and he sneered. “You _need_ me. It wasn’t enough, was it? All of your Horcruxes, and we still weren’t enough. You need me to clean up your mess, isn’t that right? _You_ can’t do it, not in that body- you’ve got more in common with a Blast-Ended Skrewt than you do with a wizard. You can’t do _anything_ ,” he smirked, one eyebrow raised, mocking. “Tell me, do you have the Crouch boy spoon-feed you, too?”

“You _dare_.”

There was something dangerous in his older counterpart’s voice, never-mind how soft it was.

Tom had barked out a laugh.

“Of course I bloody well dare,” he drawled. “I’m _you_. I am you, _before_ you went and fucked it all up.”

 He leaned forward, then, in, blood roaring in his veins, and he was angry, furiously so, and Merlin, he had half a mind to kill it, this colossal _disappointment_ , this shrivelled thing that had spoiled _everything_ , because it was not worthy of him, his name, his vision-

And then his mind was burning.

He shouted, the pain of it too sudden and too much in equal measure, and he was on his knees, tearing at his hair, reaching, desperate, for a wand, but he was _weak_ , too weak for this-

**_You will regret your insolence, boy._ **

The voice was cold in his head, and ear-splitting, and Tom’s skin was alive, alert, with the _power_ that rippled through the air, fierce and biting, and the hairs at the back of his neck stood at attention-

_Power._

By some bloody miracle, and despite all appearances, there was some strength in Lord Voldemort yet.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” he murmured, and he grinned, bearing all his teeth at the creature on the couch, even through the searing hurt. “There’s hope for us yet.”

He coughed, straining under the force of the assault upon his mind, even as Voldemort leered down at him, eyes glinting.

“If you don’t mind, I’ve rather got the message,” he said through gritted teeth, impatient.  

Voldemort acquiesced, somewhat reluctantly, Tom thought.

“Good,” he hissed. “Because I’ve got a job for you. See to it that you don’t see fit to _doubt_ again which of us could crush the other in an instant. You work for me. That has always been your purpose. Deviate from that purpose, and I will not hesitate to put you back where you came from.”

His eyes fell, pointed, to the ring by Tom’s side on the sorry grey floorboards.

Tom swallowed, hard.

It was true, of course.

He was a Horcrux; a Plan B, nothing more.

Only he did not _feel_ like a spare part.

He felt as he had, that day in Little Hangleton, alive with ambition and high with retribution, with justice.

He felt like _Lord Voldemort_.

Still, he was not foolish enough to choose an eternity in the ring over servitude of this creature he had become.

He met Voldemort’s eyes, and they looked nothing like his own, the brown that would greet him whenever he caught a reflective surface, nothing like _human_ , and he rather liked that about them.

“I understand.”

* * *

 

Tom was right, of course.

It was not easy to transfer a Horcrux into another vessel.

The whole purpose of the ritual in the first place was to bind this portion of his soul to Marvolo Gaunt’s miserable ring for all of time until it was _destroyed_ – and destroying a Horcrux was no easy feat. Certainly, it could never happen by accident. It was a life-bond, was always meant to be one.

It had taken Lord Voldemort and Barty Crouch Junior four years to piece it together, though of course, it was entirely Voldemort’s conception, and Tom would have been disappointed by anything less.

Voldemort had first thought that it might be possible when he himself learned that there was truth to the ag-old myth that the purity in unicorn blood strengthens one’s life-force, renews it, somehow.

Certainly, it was not, on its own, enough to restore one to one’s own body.

But there were _other_ rituals for that; those of blood and bone.

Logically, it made some manner of sense, then:

If a Horcrux could be afforded sufficient strength, sufficient _purity_ , it might become too _strong_ to be contained within the confines of something as flimsy as a ring.

After all, in essence, Horcruxes were merely an embodiment of purity, a mere _fragment_ of it, at that.

But if it were more, if it were simply _drowning_ in the blood of the purest creature to set foot on the cursed earth, it might demand another vessel; reject the one it lives in.

In those circumstances, it must surely be possible that a ritual to animate a body, to craft one of magic and memory, could _work_.

It took Barty Crouch Junior four years to acquire enough unicorn blood for the process.

Four _years_ of slaughter, of draining the bodies of the force that had given them life, stealing it away, for he had a far better use for it than they.

It hadn’t been easy, either, to do unnoticed. In most continents, unicorns were rather protected creatures, guarded by Ministry wards that had been something of a nuisance to breach.

After that, it had been rather straightforward. A ceremony creating a nexus between the locket, the blood, and the bones of his Muggle father.

After that, Tom Riddle was _reborn_.

In a narrow sense, of course.

He was still only a Horcrux, albeit a sentient one, capable of moving and thinking all for himself, thank Merlin.

Lord Voldemort was adamant, though, that he was nothing more.

That he was only a fragment of a person, a piece of soul, tucked away in a decidedly more convincing human vessel.

But Voldemort needed a _person_ , now, needed _him_.

 “There is a ritual,” Voldemort had said, eyes trained carefully on him, “ancient magic, and naturally dark, that would allow me to construct myself a new form, fit for my powers.”

“If that’s so, why waste four years on a ritual to give _me_ a new form?” Tom had inquired, sceptical.

Voldemort was powerful, still, _strong_ , he did not doubt it anymore.

He did, though, rather doubt the soundness of his mind.

Tom winced.

The pathetic form was suboptimal, of course.

It wasn’t precisely the tall, proud image of Lord Voldemort that had motivated him so fiercely, the physical manifestation of power he had sought to become.

But to have transformed into an _idiot_ , too, was categorically worse.

Voldemort had growled at him, apparently unappreciative of his tone.

“Because I need you to fetch me a core ingredient.”

“Pettigrew couldn’t go herb-picking for you instead? Or Crouch?” he’d leaned in. “Which means that you don’t trust them with the job.”

“Naturally,” Voldemort said, voice soft, high. “Pettigrew is a frightened mess at the best of times, and Crouch is impulsive and rather lacks the social graces to competently do that which needs to be done.”

“You’d better tell me what it is, then,” Tom had said, rather hungry for the task, after so long entirely unchallenged.  

And oh, he _imagined_ what it might be.

Some rare poison, perhaps.

The tooth of a dragon now extinct.

The blood of a royal goblin, drained out while it lives, still.

Voldemort’s voice was perfectly steady when he’d spoken next.

“I need you to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I need you to find Harry Potter. Then, I need you to send him to me.”

Tom had blinked, brow furrowed.

“You need the boy for the ritual? Why?”

“Blood of the enemy,” Voldemort said coolly. “Fitting, I think, that he should be the one to bring me back.”

Voldemort’s nostrils flared, and he was trembling, and it was with a hatred that Tom rather recognised.

He hated his father, after all; resented his pathetic grandparents, his mother, for dying, Mrs Cole, the miserable creature who saw fit to make his experience at Wool’s as devoid of anything remotely interesting, pleasant, as she possibly could.

But Voldemort hated Harry Potter more.

That much was plain.

“Quite,” Tom pursed his lips. “And the boy is at Hogwarts?”

“In his fourth year, at present,” Voldemort had said, calm. “So Pettigrew informs me. He is rather protected, you understand, by the Headmaster.”

“Headmaster?”

Tom leaned forward, intrigued.

If it was truly 1994, then it could not be Dippet, still, after all.  

Voldemort pursed his lips in distaste.

“Albus Dumbledore.”

Tom cursed under his breath.

“I may have noticed a small flaw in your brilliant plan, My Lord,” he said bitingly, “Professor Dumbledore knows this face, and he certainly doesn’t _like_ it very much.”

“Which is why,” Voldemort said, some peculiar glint to his eyes that Tom rather recognised, “We’ve a great deal of work to do, boy, before you begin.”

Tom had studied Voldemort, slow, careful.

He knew that look in his eye, recognised it with a sense of earth-shattering _relief_.

Voldemort was not an idiot.

Voldemort had a plan.

And it was as _good_ one, if the curve of his lip was anything to go by.

He inclined his head, heart humming in anticipation.

“I am yours to instruct, My Lord.”

* * *

 

Tom drew in a sharp breath when he set his eyes on the great castle that he had come to somewhat fondly think of as home, two years after Voldemort first told him of this plan of his, this mission.

Two years since he’d told him, courtesy of Barty Crouch Junior, of the grand plan in the Ministry to restore the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts in 1996.

Two years since he had begun his training, comprehensive, relentless, brilliant, as it had been.

Two years since Lord Voldemort had taught him everything he had yet to learn, every spell and rune and secret of the Dark and Light.

Two years, and at last, he was powerful, more so than he had ever been, though, Voldemort had told him over and over with a snarl, not as powerful as _he_ had been, at the very peak of his power.

Two years, and at last, he was here.

It had been so long ago, of course, since he had set foot in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and in some sense, it felt like it.

The magnificent lake, shining under the sun, the fierce green of the mountains that surrounded it, the hoops of the Quidditch Pitch suspended in the sky, they are strikingly odd to behold.

New and old, all at once.

Familiar and foreign.

He felt as though he had been here only yesterday.

He felt as though Hogwarts was a dear old friend he’d not seen in many years, indeed, and he could barely recognise them with their new hair style, the weight they’ve shed.

Still, that feeling was there, the one he’d first felt when he was eleven, and an enchanted little boat had carried him across the lake to this place where magic was not a shortcoming, but an asset, a skill to be groomed.

A place where he was not a freak, a menace.

No, here, he was singularly gifted.

Here, he was Heir, Prince, King.

Something like a smile touched his lips, and he drew his wand, raised it firm into the sky until it touched the very wards of Hogwarts, unguarded, courtesy of a yearly reset of the protection spells in place there, meticulously recorded by Peter Pettigrew in his rodent form for the past three years.

The students were yet to arrive for the new year for another fortnight, still; what danger was it, they had reasoned, to reset the wards now?

He only had a matter of seconds, of course, but that was no hinderance.

“ _Obliviate omnis_.”

The very air had seemed to shudder upon impact, a tremor that shook the very _atmosphere_ , letting Tom know that his spell had served its purpose well.

His jaw tightened.

It certainly wasn’t quite what he had envisioned, when he first tore his soul to pieces into the leather diary he carried with him always.

That one day, Hogwarts would forget him, all of it-

Every Professor, portrait, ghost and poltergeist.  

That he would _make_ it forget.

But no matter.

He would give them something new to remember in time.

Hogwarts, and the world.

Stowing his wand neatly in his robes, satisfied, Tom nudged the little bottle in his front pocket with the tips of his fingers, as though to reassure himself that it was there, still; the product of everything that Voldemort has achieved since that night in Godric’s Hollow, in 1981, the reason this was not going to fail.

The reason Lord Voldemort would return in earnest.

He cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and set off rather briskly up the hills towards the heavy gates to guarding the castle.

It wouldn’t do to be late for his interview, after all.

* * *

 

Minerva McGonagall blinked at him tiredly upon registering his presence, not responding to the dazzling smile he cast her way with so much as a faint flush across the cheek– a rarity that rather endeared the witch to him.

Her hair was peppered with silver, held tight at the back of her head, and her eyebrows were drawn sharply together, stern over thin spectacles.

“You must have been misinformed, Mr Riddle,” she had said, curt. “Defence Against the Dark Arts is well taught by a Professor Lupin at present. I’m afraid we’ve no open post.”

She was yet, it seemed, to hear of the Professor’s wonderfully _spontaneous_ decision to take the year for himself, travelling the world, courtesy of Barty Crouch Junior’s gentle persuasion.

Tom’s lip had twitched.    

“I assure you, I come only pursuant to the express invitation of Albus Dumbledore himself.”

Minerva raised her eyebrows, but did not protest further.

Why should she, after all?

Professor Dumbledore was more than capable of disposing of an unwelcome visitor himself.

“I see,” she’d said, clipped. “You’d better come with me, then.”

It had been a brisk, albeit silent, march towards the familiar gargoyle statue that Tom had known to be Professor Dippet’s guard dog, of sorts.

It was not a surprise that it had passed to Dumbledore, now, though an unpleasant development nonetheless.

He had some cause to feel nervous, of course.

When Tom had seen Professor Dumbledore last, he was in line to board the Hogwarts Express: to go home, only this time, he would be damned if he returned to that sorry excuse for an orphanage. This time, he had a visit to pay, family to reunite with, and it was all going to be terribly touching.

The Professor had narrowed eyes when he had looked at him, then, and if Tom had known of Legilimency at the time, he might have panicked.

Might have thought that he _knew_.

What Tom had done.

What he was going to do yet.

But Tom had mastered his apprehension. It wouldn’t do to contemplate that now, and, armed with the little bottle in his sleeve and a world of self assurance, his plan was, by all means, quite secure.

So he had smiled cordially as Minerva stopped at the Gargoyle, predictably proclaiming ‘ _liquorice wand’_ to be the password of the minute, before she stepped aside, gestured for him to follow through even as the great gargoyle groaned, stone grinding on stone, twisting until the feeble stairs leading upward revealed themselves.

“You will find Professor Dumbledore upstairs, in his study.” She pursed her lips. “Curious that he did not tell you that, when he expressly invited you for an interview.”

Her eyebrows were thin, raised high.

She was clever, of course, irritatingly so.

Perhaps it was a requisite characteristic of Hogwarts Transfiguration Professors, he’d thought rather dryly.

Tom’s tongue flicked over his lip once, slow, and she followed the movement with her eyes, something trembling in them, uneasy, _suspicious_ , and her hand was slipping into her robes of deep green, absent-mindedly, perhaps, but likely toward the place where she kept her wand in any case.  

_Imperio._

He did not say it aloud. Even in this apparently vacant hall, to do so would constitute something terribly foolish: might alert another to his actions, might give the witch some semblance of a warning.

He felt something, then, tense, grating against his magic; a _struggle_.

A fight.

It was impressive, admittedly; a sign that perhaps staff were less spectacularly incompetent than they had been, in his own time, and he had felt his lip quirk up, even as he tightened his grip over Minerva’s magic, extinguishing it, suffocating it into submission, and it was _exhilarating_ , because Merlin, it had been absolutely too long since he had felt this, the way he could snuff out the light in somebody as easily as he might a _candle_ \-  

Minerva grit her teeth, and her fist tightened in her robes-

She must have it, then, her wand, must be readying to cast -

It was a matter of moments before her eyes glazed over, vision foggy.

Her hand went slack where it had grasped at her wand.  

Now, of course, she would see only what he wanted.

Do only what _he_ wanted.

Tom had pressed his lips into a tight smile, satisfied.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said, ever polite. “If you would be so kind as to lead the way.”

Minerva did not blink when she moved forward at his direction, now.

Her mouth did not twist, bitter, reluctant, as it had only moments before.

Tom followed behind as the Professor began to journey up the stone stairs, even as the door croaked closed behind them, leaving them entirely alone in this climbing passage-

He leaned in, so that he was speaking in her ear.

“Very good,” he murmured, and he gripped her waist, fingers digging in rough to stop her from moving, if only for a moment. He had to see to it that she heard him, now, that she was paying attention. “In a moment, you are going to knock on the door. You are not going to announce my presence. You are going to enter the room- and you are going to cast the Cruciatus Curse upon Albus Dumbledore.”

He paused, surveying the witch.

She had not reacted to words, of course, she wasn’t really capable of it, though something in her neck seemed to jump and strain, pulse seemed to quicken.

“Do you understand? Tell me that you understand,” he demanded, soft, quiet.  

“I am going to knock on the door,” Minerva’s voice was entirely vacant, unfeeling. “I will not announce your presence. I will enter the room. I will cast the Cruciatus Curse upon Albus Dumbledore.”

The words were rather beautiful to hear, and Tom stole a small moment to close his eyes, savour them.

“Just so.”

* * *

 

In the end, it was seamless.

Tom was almost _disappointed_.

Disappointed that for all his wit and power and prowess and purportedly unparalleled wisdom, it was something as _mundane_ as the element of surprise that saw Albus Dumbledore sprawled across Dippet’s old floor, writhing and wide-eyed and disarmed in his grand attire even as Minerva kept her wand trained on the Headmaster, _crucio_ s enchanting as they landed over again on the man who Tom had so feared, once. Respected, even.

“Tom,” Dumbledore had said, the recognition striking him the moment his eyes, a calm sort of blue, landed on Tom’s, and even through the agony that tore through his features courtesy of the Cruciatus Curse, he managed to look _concerned._ Pitying.

It was as Lord Voldemort had anticipated.

Obliviating the school, and every sentient thing to set foot in it, was a mere matter of altering the wards that define and confine the magic that operates within these parameters.

But Albus Dumbledore had been another matter.

Had been difficult.

Stronger.

Too strong, certainly, to be bewitched by his very own wards.

Dumbledore had warranted his own brand of magic, his own humiliation.

Tom was only too happy to deliver it.

“Professor,” he’d said, mocking, eyes narrow. “ _Headmaster,_ I should say. My apologies.”

“How?”

It was all the man said, and his voice was soft and not remotely impress, and Tom scowled.

“I’d like to tell you, really,” he said. “I’d like to see your face when I do.”

After all, it was an infuriating face, even at the best of times.

The judgment it contained, the thinly veiled air of superiority, suspicion, that awful smile that promised that it was kind, was on his side, the way that it was a _lie_.

It always had been a lie, even since Tom was eleven.

He had known it, then, too.

In an instant, Tom was _upon_ him, knees on the floor and fingers pressing tight around Dumbledore’s neck, sending the man spluttering, choking, at last losing some composure, and Minerva McGonagall was _crying_ , silent, though she did not stop- Tom had never told her she could stop, and so she didn’t. There was a phoenix on the desk, making an awful fuss now, wings spread and screaming, beady eyes fixed on his- Tom waved his arm, impatient, and the bird fell gracelessly to the polished floor, perfectly frozen in place.

He’d tilted his head, then, turning his attention back to the miserable man in the heart of the room.

“Unfortunately, that isn’t why I’m here.”

“Why-” Dumbledore said, _stuttered_ , really, as Tom’s fingers dug in harder, nails breaking the skin until pools of red began to seep around his fingertips.

Tom watched the patterns that they formed around his nails with a clinical sort of interest.

 This part of it was not strictly necessary, of course, was not planned, but he took the liberty of enjoying it in any case.

Merlin, he’d dreamed of it enough not to waste the chance.

“Why _am_ I here?” Tom had guessed, voice light, conversational, even as Dumbledore strained under his hands, trembled with the force of Minerva’s curses. “That is the question, isn’t it, Albus- may I call you Albus?”

Removing one of his hands, from its place around the old wizard’s neck, Tom grasped the tiny bottle of deep red between two fingers delicately.

Dumbledore’s eyes fixed on it, and he did not know what it was, that much was apparent.

He was apprehensive, of course.

Fearful, even.

Woefully unprepared, and that, that, had been what Tom had been counting on.

He almost grinned.

“I can show you better than I can tell you.”  

Pressing the writhing Headmaster down with his knee, now, Tom shifted his grip on Dumbledore’s neck to his jaw, wrenching it open with a rough pull, even as he winced.

It only took Tom a moment to unseal the bottle, pour its foul-scented contents into the man’s mouth.

Only a moment to _force_ his jaw closed, trapping the potion- the _poison_ \- inside.

Tom pressed his fingers into Dumbledore’s lips, his nose, so that he could not breathe, even as his eyes strained, tears leaking from their sides so that the potion had nowhere to go, now, put into his belly.

Even then, it had been too late.

Too late from the moment it touched his tongue.

Albus Dumbledore _shouted_ into Tom’s hand like a wounded dog.

* * *

 

When he came to, Professor Dumbledore was surprised, albeit honoured, to find the esteemed young gentleman by the name of Tom Riddle, a rather recent graduate of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and extraordinarily accomplished Auror associate for one so young, waiting in his office to interview for the _vacant_ Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor post at Hogwarts, upon, of course, receipt of a letter from one Remus Lupin, announcing his holiday plans for the year ahead.  

 _Honoured_ to welcome him to the faculty, show him to his quarters- by his old Common Room, as fortune would have it.

And Tom, the picture of professionalism in his formal attire, parted hair, politician’s smile, was honoured to accept it.

* * *

 

Tom had been anxious for the term to begin.

He passed the time quietly, in his quarters, arranging quills in a pleasing order on his desk.

He rather liked it.

His room.

It was modest, yes, and small, but decidedly less so than the darkness that Marvolo Gaunt’s ring had offered him.

Besides, Tom had never had a room before.

At the orphanage he had always been made to share, except for when Mrs Cole saw fit to punish him – and then, she would have him thrown into an old broom cupboard.

By the time he was fourteen he could scarcely fit in it anymore.

At Hogwarts, he at least had curtains to draw in around him in the dorimitory, but with Lestrange snoring obnoxiously into the night-time and Avery climbing in over loose, noisy floorboards after a midnight shag in the girl’s bathrooms on the fourth floor every other night, or so he bragged, any and all notions of privacy were limited at best.

Here was different.

Here, he could read without the usual burden of being watched.

Not by Professors, proud.

Girls, enchanted, ever and always _romanticising_ him in their own minds.

Not by his friends, intimidated, impressed.

Here, he was simply Professor Riddle, duly preparing for his lessons in solitude.

Here, he could ready himself in earnest for the day that he would meet Harry Potter.

The Boy Who Lived.

The boy who brought the great Lord Voldemort to his knees, sent him into hiding, the shell of a wizard, the _shadow_.

The boy who to this day, Voldemort cannot recall without white rage burning in his eyes, tightening his mouth.

Tom was curious.

He had been since he’d first heard that name, that _story_ , that impossible, ludicrous, story, the one he would never let his true self live down.

He rather hoped that Potter would be something impressive.

It wouldn’t at all do if he wasn’t.

He had lived where the Dark Lord had merely survived, half-dead and invisible to the wizarding world that had once bowed before his very moniker.

That, Tom thought, was well enough to make Harry Potter’s life singularly important.

He’d better have made it a good one.

He’d better be clever, _worthy_ of the past two years, for him, and the past sixteen, for Lord Voldemort.

He had better be something extraordinary.

He _owed_ Tom that much.

Owed him some measure of entertainment, now.

Because oh, Tom was _bored_.

Catastrophically so.

In the ring, he thought he might well go mad with it.

In some sense, Tom supposed this boy had rather done him a _favour_ , defeating his true self as he had.

Not that he stood any chance of defeating Tom.

That much became _crystal_ clear, Tom’s first lesson with the boy.

* * *

 

Tom was, naturally, _good_ at being Professor Riddle.

He had always entertained the idea of returning to Defence Against the Dark Arts to teach, partly because he taught Avery, Lestrange, Malfoy, everything that they knew, anyway, and partly because it would make for a useful environment to train and recruit a standing army for himself, comprised of only the sharpest young minds on offer at this proud old institution.  

Partly, too, because he did not want to leave Hogwarts.

Standing by the great desk that announced his station as Professor at the head of the classroom, shirt buttoned and tucked neatly into belted trousers, eyes lazy as they grazed the room, taking in the flushed faces of the boys and girls before him, he decided at once that this was unequivocally better than it had been, sitting uninspired in the same chairs his students now occupied, knowing before the class began that he would be the one to end up answering all the miserable Professor’s fairly uncomplex questions, if only to move the bloody lesson along.

Here, he could pique their interests.

Could show them _power_ , real, raw, their first day.

Could teach them something that they would remember, always.

It had been difficult not to stare at the boy, then.

It was the scar that did it.

Tom didn’t know why it surprised him.

It really oughtn’t have.

It was only that nobody – not Lord Voldemort, not Crouch, not Pettigrew, had told him to expect; the little lightning bolt sketched in pink across the boy’s forehead.

 _Marked_.

Dark curses had a tendency to do such a thing, after all.

But it was somewhat transfixing; seemed to speak, even, _to him_ , seemed to scream, sting-

Yes, the scar was something most intriguing.

Without it, Potter himself, much to Tom’s profound _disappointment_ , was something of a let-down.

He had messy hair and bright eyes that hinted at intelligence that the boy didn’t, in earnest, possess.

He spent the majority of the lesson practicing a dull unwillingness to volunteer comments and laughing, albeit uneasily, with the rest of the room upon witnessing _Imperio._

He did not know what the Killing Curse was, and really, there was no excuse for intellectual negligence such as this: to not bother to acquaint oneself with the very spell that made one famous, made one _impossible_.

It was uninspired, ordinary.

The Boy Who Lived, the boy who all of this was _for,_ was like any other.

If that made Tom feel a _ngry,_ furious at Lord Voldemort for letting this mundane _infant_ best him, he swallowed it hard.

The girl was a rather welcome, albeit entirely unanticipated, substitute for _interesting_.

A piece of Potter’s puzzle he’d not thought on much at all, when Pettigrew had mentioned her first.

Clever, he had said, and obnoxious.

There never was a shortage of clever and obnoxious at Hogwarts, supposing one’s definition of ‘clever’ was rather generous, particularly in Ravenclaw, and so Tom had not paid the girl any mind.

But he should have.

She had been speaking when he came into the room with _gusto_ ; something rather amusing about how her peers really ought to concern themselves with matters other than his availability for dalliances with students.

For all the apparently sensible things that she was saying, she evidently lacked a basic and requisite understanding of her surroundings, because when he spoke, her cheeks had flushed a most entertaining shade of pink, utterly taken aback by his presence in the classroom.

She said her name quickly and quietly upon his request, more intently looking at her own shoes than him, and with a surname as telling as _Granger_ , he rather thought he knew why.

It was rather the same way he’d taken to introducing himself his first year at Hogwarts, the moment he learned in the Slytherin Common Room that he had a Muggle name; that a Muggle name was a shameful one, weak.

 _She_ was a Half-Blood, then, at least on her father’s side.

Muggle-born, even, Merlin forbid, but Tom rather came to suspect not, by the end of the lesson.

She was much too clever to be the product of Muggle blood and nothing more, although he gathered it was no longer considered socially acceptable to be blunt about such things.

Hermione Granger, in any case, was something _peculiar_ , not in the least because of the way she looked, face narrow, eyes wide and mouth soft, rather conventionally pretty, he supposed, save for the mess of thick curls atop her head, unruly as Tom had ever seen.

She spoke briskly, as though if she did not say the words precisely as they came to her they would disappear into air altogether, and he found himself leaning in just to follow her, part irritated and part enthralled as she went on.

She gave textbook perfect responses to questions, when asked – ‘ _Three Unforgiveable Curses recognised under Merlin’s Matrix’_.

Tom knew it was perfect because he had given it, too, word for word out of the pages of the first edition of _Dark Spell_ what felt like mere weeks ago.

She was rather accustomed to being praised liberally for it, too, as he had been, if the crestfallen look about her when he refrained from doing so was anything to go by. It was something he might have expected of a Slytherin, a Ravenclaw, even; the pride she took in knowing the answers, the _vigour_ with which she raised her hand before he’d even finished asking the question. Her red robes were somewhat curious, given her obvious affinity with the academic. Tom was rather more accustomed to Gryffindors who saw sitting examinations after a night heavy with fire whisky as the height of academic achievement.

There was something else, of course.

Something else that made her _different_ than him, not quite the model student that he had been, and it was frustrating.

Because she spoke out of turn.

She was _formidable_ , of course, sharp, it was futile to deny it; what she had said about the Cruciatus Curse.

What she had said about those who used it.

_Cowards._

It was not altogether _wrong,_ and that, coming from a sixth year student who was not him, was worth something in and of itself.

Still, she was _rude_ to him, deliberately so, but it was not because she wanted to show him that she was clever, although she desperately wanted him to see that, too.

No.

It was because she was staring at Neville Longbottom, the dumpy boy who turned green at the mere mention of the Cruciatus Curse; a consequence, he supposed, of his own rather intimate experience of its effects, courtesy, he’d been told, of a loyal, albeit unhinged, follower of Voldemort’s.

Hermione Granger was staring at the boy, brow ever so furrowed with concern, and she figured that he needed _rescuing_ from the awful, prying Professor.

A diversion, an interruption.

It hadn’t mattered to her what it was that she said to him.

Only that she said something.

Only that Tom turn his attention on her, and not Neville Longbottom.

 _There_ was the Gryffindor in her, then.

There was the reckless stupidity that was so characteristic of the lion’s house.

He had given it to her; his attention.

He had watched her _squirm_ under his gaze, watched her hold her breath waiting for him to say something, to tell her what it was that he thought of her.

Tom had watched the girl leave his classroom with folded arms and a frown.

He remembered what Peter Pettigrew had said about Hermione Granger.

It had not been much.

He had said that she lived in books, that she was uptight, that she was a teacher’s pet.

He said that she, Harry, and Ronald Weasley, the boy with the shock of red hair, were inseparable since their first year, on account of an incident involving a troll and the girl’s bathroom.

He said that it was Hermione Granger who had discovered that Remus Lupin was a werewolf.

He had pursed her lips, then, murmured her name under his breath, faint, and he had wondered.

For the first time, he wondered.

For the first time, he knew how he would guide Harry Potter through the Triwizard Tournament unscathed.

For the first time, he thought that Harry Potter would have very little to do with that plan.

Hermione Granger, on the other hand, would be _everything_.

* * *

 

Yes, Tom was good at being Professor Riddle, that much was true.

Tom was good at most things that he tried, so it was not a point of particular pride.

But he liked it best, _better_ , he had thought, in the beginning.

Being in control.

The way they looked at him, awaiting his instruction, so sickeningly _eager_ to please him, all of them, although of course, the vast majority of them never would.

The way they looked when he performed something before their very eyes that they could never dream of producing themselves.

The way the Professors left him _alone,_ save for meal-times, when he rather enjoyed the dry wit that Minerva McGonagall, as it happened, was more than willing to provide when she was not busy torturing the Headmaster on his command.

The way Harry Potter came to look to _him_ for advice.

The way Hermione Granger hung on his every word.

The way she cared so terribly _deeply_ about the three marks he had withheld from her in her essay, purely because, while brilliant, it was predictable Gryffindor drawl and he was rather disappointed by the argument she had advanced, not that he saw fit to tell her that.

The way he had her so terribly flustered when he saw fit to award Malfoy, idiotic, proud, as Abraxas has been, close to her own marks, if only to test her; see how she responded to the perception of a little competition, for, at present, it was quite clear that she had none, and Tom had a theory that she would do her best work when under a spot of _pressure_.

The way she was nervous to confront him about it in the dark halls, her pile of books about the Tournament in his hands; how she had stuttered, been so fucking _shy_ , and still, managed to be so adamant that she was not an idiot; that she would not for a moment stand to be treated as such.

The way the word ‘Sir’ sounded, soft, breathy, when she spoke it through her parted lips, though that was neither here nor there.

It was _bothersome_ , though.

Her voice.

The way he wasn’t entirely adverse to hearing it.

The way it made him think, on occasion, that perhaps it would have been more prudent to simply have stepped into the role of Tom Riddle, transfer _student_ from Ilvermony.

He could have befriended her, then; given her some semblance of entertainment, exhilaration, in class, as a rival, an ally.

Could have fed her the information to Harry just as easily, _more_ , even, in addition to other advantages, of sorts.

The Yule Ball, for example.

It was not in the interests of the mission- Potter’s victory in the final task of the Triwizard Tournament- that Hermione should attend with that Bulgarian mass of brawn, Krum.

Potentially problematic, at best, and disastrous at worse.

It was abundantly obvious that the boy was only using her in any case.

It had taken him all of one lesson to recognise Hermione Granger as the clever key to his entire venture.

Viktor Krum had _months_ to do the same.

Besides, it was hardly as though _he_ was in any position to appreciate her mind, and she wasn’t remotely pretty enough to have captured his attentions for any other reason. Not to somebody as thick-headed as Viktor Krum.

He reminded Tom of Avery, who’d been Chaser, even trialled for England and made the reserves, the last year Tom remembered – the last year Tom was Tom, and not a fraction of his own soul.

It was to this success that he owed his never-ending string of appointments with wayward women in the bathrooms after curfew.

Tom was not convinced for a moment that Viktor Krum was different, better, in any regard.

Not convinced for a moment that Viktor Krum could in any sense have any genuinely held interest in Hermione Granger.

There was, of course, only so much that _Professor Riddle_ could do about that.

Tom Riddle, transfer student, on the other hand, might have intervened.

It would have been easy enough to ask her for himself.

She would have said yes, he thought.

Even if he asked her after Krum had.

She would have said yes.

Merlin, her classmates were making fools, even _criminals_ , of themselves trying to ask _him_ , Lavender Brown and Pansy Parkinson making notably valiant, albeit foolish, efforts.

It was irritating, though not unexpected.

Tom knew how he looked.

It had always garnered him a certain kind of attention from a certain kind of woman; the heated glances and the warmth in their cheeks, the way they laughed too high or too loud at whatever he happened to say.

He had never quite understood why.

Aside from having the good sense to polish his shoes and ensure that his robes were not crumpled, Tom could care less for his appearance.

He did not spend a good deal of time, any time, really, evaluating whether he was attractive or not, but if he were to, he would simply think that he looked troublingly ordinary, save for the _smile_ that he could put on when he wanted.

Still, it seemed that his features served him just as well - or poorly, depending on one’s view - in 1994 as they had in 1943.

It was somewhat difficult to be sure that Hermione Granger was similarly charmed, more’s the pity.  

Certainly, she averted her eyes, sometimes, when he looked at her, cheeks pink; stumbled over her words, clumsy, and when he touched her, she would draw her breath _in._

But she was too willing to chastise him, to _argue_ with him, to be infatuated, and besides, he’d wager she had more important things to turn her mind to than whether she fancied him good-looking or not.  

No matter.

If she did not say yes because she was attracted to him, it would have been because she liked talking to him.

Because her thoughts, observations, theories, were lost on anybody _but_ him, and she knew that.

Potter couldn’t keep up with her, nor the sorry Weasley boy, and certainly not Krum.

An evening with _Tom_ would have constituted a decidedly less dull experience for Hermione than one with the Quidditch player with Firewhisky in his veins and a laughable inability to say her name.

He could tell.

He could tell by the way she was _bright,_ alive, when, entertainingly inebriated and rather dangerously presented with tamed hair gleaming, revealing the whole of her flushed face, and an appallingly tight dress revealing much more, she had approached him, even as _Professor Riddle_.

The way she told him he was _late,_ as though she had been expecting him.

Waiting, though of course, she had merely _noticed his absence_.

The way she had pressed her fingers into his chest, leaned _in_ , without realising it, because the Firewhisky was numbing her to social sensibilities and heightening the part of her that was enthralled with _him_.

How she _started_ when Viktor Krum touched her, as though she had forgotten that he existed.

And oh, if he were Tom Riddle, transfer student, he would have _made_ her forget.

And Krum would not have touched her at _all_.

Tom would never have had to find her, lips swollen and hair tangled and undone, pressed still against the stone wall by the staircase, face heated, because of Viktor fucking Krum.

It was regrettable, of course, _disappointing_ , that bright as she was, sharp as she was, she was so stupidly susceptible to _this_.

To _him:_ the stupid-famous young Seeker with an ego and a scowl.

The stupid-famous Young Seeker with an ego and a scowl who was in fierce contest with her friend and certainly using her to give himself an advantage.

Tom had wanted badly to tell her that.

He supposed he had, in so many words.

Perhaps he had been harsh, he acknowledged it.

But harsh was all that Professor Riddle could be.

Because Professor Riddle was professional, and Hermione Granger was _proper._

It simply wouldn’t do for Professor Riddle to tell her that she should never had said yes to Viktor Krum.

For Professor Riddle to tell her that he was not _worthy_ of her ‘yes’.

For Professor Riddle to make her understand that Viktor Krum was nothing, was a _joke,_ was _using her,_ could not possibly entertain her, challenge her, invigorate _her_.

To make her understand that _he,_ Tom, could.

That he would.

It only grew more infuriating at the Second Task.

Hermione Granger was not supposed to be chosen, of course.

Krum’s childhood friend, some unfortunate sod called Dragan, was lined up from the start as the hostage.

Tom should have been more cautious, of course; should have _known_ that they had switched it around.

So Viktor Krum did have some genuine affection for the girl.

Of course, that did not mean that he was not using her, too.

It was entirely possible, indeed, probable, for both to be true at once.

Perhaps, though, if he had been Tom Riddle, transfer student- if he had gone with the girl to the Ball, and not Viktor Krum, he would not have barged into McGonagall’s office, too late and to his distinct embarrassment, and he had half a mind to obliviate it from the witch’s mind, if only to wipe the incredulous look from her face.

She had performed the spell too hastily, without the requisite comfort protections, upon his abrupt arrival – something that he was naturally furious about, but the Professor had squarely blamed _him_ for it, had demanded to know what on earth he’d thought he was doing.

In truth, Tom did not quite know.

He had found Potter in the library, regardless; sent him Neville Longbottom and an invaluable text that would point him to the rather obvious solution that had escaped him.

Granger, for the purposes of the task at hand, was no longer strictly necessary to secure Potter’s success, or at least, to guard against his likely failure.

Besides, she had been utterly petulant since the Yule Ball, having, he supposed, taken his words to heart.

She always did take words to heart.

It was a rather annoying habit that she would have to drop, were she to become _something_ , one day.

Though, if she was going to take anybody’s words to heart they might as well be his.

In the end, it was Viktor Krum’s fault.

Viktor Krum’s fault that she was chosen in the first instance.

Viktor Krum’s fault that she was soaked through her shirt, torso all but bare through its sheer fabric, throat grated raw with salt water, lungs in agony, as they surely must be, after two hours suspended in the lake, and Tom had been _angry,_ some sour taste in his mouth, poisoning his tongue, because Krum was not remotely worth the risk, worth _anything,_ and Hermione Granger should know that.

If he had been Tom Riddle, transfer student, he could have made Krum regret trying a _thing_ with the girl.

Could curse him, humiliate him, could have him hung out to dry before the three schools.

Professor Riddle could only scold _-_

 _Professor Riddle_ should _not_ have done anything more.

Certainly, he should not have had Hermione stay back after class under some guise of legitimacy.

He should not-

Fuck, he should _not_ have said that she wanted him.

He should not have tried to see if it was _true,_ just because he wanted to know.

Just because, ever since the bloody Yule Ball, he had wanted to _know_ , and she was too bloody hard to read, and it was annoying.

To _prove_ that even though she was the picture of propriety and he was her Professor and it was perfectly forbidden, she wanted him, still.

That despite the circumstances, she preferred _him_ , not Viktor Krum.

It was telling, however wrong it had been.

Telling, because she had wet her lips and her eyes were glinting and her mouth was parted, and she did not move when he approached her, and not because she was afraid-

He wanted to read her properly, then.

Badly, he wanted to press into the seams of her mind, to cast Legilimens, to see all that she felt, thought.

He tightened his fists, restrained himself.

She said that she didn’t, of course.

Want him.

She said that he was wrong.

Tom thought that she was lying.

* * *

 

Professor Dumbledore was fighting the potion.

It had weakened him, naturally, and so his progress was slow – but Tom knew that the Headmaster was not oblivious to the fact that this was more than mere illness and age.

He knew when his routine tracking spell over the man revealed that, when he was notably absent from the Yule Ball, he was not in his office or his quarters.

Professor Dumbledore had made a trip to Saint Mungos Hospital that night.

After that, Tom had taken to having Minerva watch him.

She was a talented witch, observant; and under the influence of _Imperio,_ she made for the perfect watch-dog.

That wasn’t to say that Tom wasn’t rather _tense,_ come the night before the third task.

Make it to tomorrow.

It was all that he had to do, and, if Albus Dumbledore stayed in the fog just a handful of hours more, it would be easy.

It would be _done._

It was somewhat regrettable, of course, that Potter would have to die.

Then again, perhaps he would not.

Tom had taught him _well,_ and for all his shortcomings, every bit of ordinary, the boy was a quick study; good in the _moment_ , as the incident with the dragon had shown him, even if he was hopeless on paper.

Perhaps he would give Lord Voldemort a fitting welcome duel.

Perhaps Voldemort would be endeared to him; come to be amused, as Tom had come to be amused.

Tom would not dwell on it.

The moment Potter touched the Cup, he was no longer Tom’s responsibility; no longer his concern.

And so he had sat tight, and he had been patient, waited for the morning.

He had not counted on interruptions, and certainly had not welcomed them.

He had not counted on _her_.

She was in _pieces_ at his door in the dark, breaths rasping and eyes alight with tears that promised to spill, and she was saying something, though Tom could not quite catch what, and she was bent over, as though falling in on herself.

He only looked at her, for a moment, because he was not sure quite what else he ought to do.

Tom had never seen a person like this before.

Of course, he had seen _crying_ before- had made it happen more than he cared to count.

He had seen hysterical and nonsensical and begging, his father had seen to that in his final moments.

But he has never seen a person with this _look_ before.

This look that was not asking for forgiveness, for mercy, for some harm that he was inflicting to stop.

Hermione Granger was looking at him last night as though he was something utterly different to what he was.

A _life-line_.

A bloody _Healer_.

And he should have turned her away.

Merlin, it did him no fucking good to let her in.

Certainly, after that ridiculous stunt she’d thought she was so clever for pulling, the _innocent_ questions about Legilimency saturated with improper implications, she’d no right to come here, now.

But she was still _looking_ at him, as though her heart might break if he did not.

As though she had nowhere else to go.

Tom had opened the door.

It was the sensible course, he told himself.

She was distressed, and he did not know why, and it could well be to do with the Tournament.

If he turned her away, she might go to Professor Dumbledore, and that was a prospect well worth avoiding.

It was the sensible course, nothing more.

Nothing, certainly, to do with the _look_ that struck her when he stepped aside to let her inside.

Nothing to do with the dizzying sense of relief, the gratitude, that seemed to gleam in her eyes when they met his, next.

Nothing to do with the way his chest felt terribly tight at the sight of it.

* * *

 

She had figured it out in all ways but one.

Tom supposed she wouldn’t have been half as clever as he’d given her credit for if she hadn’t.

She knew that Lord Voldemort was returning rather imminently.

She knew that it was someone of _his_ who had placed Potter’s name in the Goblet of Fire, expressly upon his instruction.

Karkaroff was a convenient scapegoat if ever there was one, and he was much obliged to the man for proving such a wonderfully guilty-looking suspect.

Of course, Karkaroff was not the reason she had come to him, tonight.

 _That_ was courtesy of Severus Snape.

Tom knew about the two of them, of course; their prior loyalties to Voldemort, but it was not surprising that their students were not nearly so informed.

In any case, Hermione was in _pieces_ over Snape.

It wasn’t an option to simply tell her that she was mistaken; to waive off her concerns.

She had heard the pair whispering about You Know Who in a cupboard – the fact that neither man had the basic fucking sense to cast a _muffliato_ was beyond him.

She had _seen_ Snape’s Dark Mark, the symbol that Voldemort had inscribed upon his Death Eaters.

Barty Crouch Junior had shown Tom his.

He had been utterly _enchanted_ by the way that they looked; the serpent, an homage to his ancestor, his house, deadly in black ink, curled through a skull like a tongue, alive, even in death, _thriving_ in it.

He wondered what Hermione made of it.

He asked her something else, instead.

“You haven’t spoken to Dumbledore about this. Why?”

Hermione had hesitated, though he knew better than to suppose that it was because she was not certain.

“I think he already knows. I know that- Sir, I found out about Karkaroff, so I read about his- his a _ppeal,_ before the Council. I know he gave names of other Death Eaters to buy his freedom, but the names were redacted, and Dumbledore was _there_ , on the Council, and I think _Snape-_ ”

 _Of course_.

It made sense.

Tom knew, after all, that Severus Snape was a spy for Voldemort, still, playing the part of Dumbledore’s loyal subject masterfully.

But Hermione did not know that.

All she knew was that Karkaroff had named his peers, and the Council had redacted those names.

It was-

Brilliant.

Of course it was.

Of course she was.

That wasn’t new information, though he felt something, something like _pride,_ anyway, and it was useless, unwarranted, because, after all, she was not brilliant _enough_.

Certainly, not enough to appreciate that she was confessing all of this to a fragment of Lord Voldemort’s soul.

She would piece it together eventually, of course.

Not who he was, she would never know that.

But who he worked for.

That it was he who put Harry Potter’s name in the Goblet of Fire.

That he knew perfectly well that the Cup was a portkey, that he made it so.

Yes, when it was too _late_ , he was positive that she would understand.

He imagined that she would be furious with herself.

Of course, she would be more furious with _him_.

Disgusted, if her reaction to Professor Snape’s Dark Mark was anything to go by.

Disgusted, betrayed, incredulous.

This, this moment in the night, he knew, was the last time he would see her face and know that the anger in it, the hurt, was not directed solely at him.

This moment was the last he might see her face, in any event.

He wasn’t to be Professor Riddle much longer, after all.  

Perhaps that was why he asked her to call him Tom.

Perhaps, because it was nothing more than a guess.

He hadn’t planned to do it.

Hadn’t been remotely aware that it was something he _wanted_ to do, had any intention of doing, until the words were hanging in the air between them, already, to late for him to swallow.

“What?” she had said, naturally, because it was beyond irrelevant, and stupid, and he should simply move on-

“It’s-my name.”

He did not know what on earth possessed him to say it.

She was going to despise him, so fucking soon, and she was going to be irrelevant to him, so fucking soon, so what did it _matter_?

But then, he thought, that was precisely why.

Because this moment in the night was immaterial to anything, _everything_.

All that he needed to do was ensure that Hermione did not find him out, before the task, and so long as he did that, it was entirely irrelevant, what he did, now.

Irrelevant, if his Professor Riddle guise slipped, if only a little.

This moment, he could be Tom Riddle, transfer student, or close, anyway.

He could be the life-line that she had come looking for, make her _glad_ that she came to him, and not somebody else.

Not Professor Dumbledore or McGonagall or Hagrid or Harry Potter or Ron Weasley or sodding Viktor Krum.

He could be the person she wanted him to be, and it wouldn’t _matter_ , and there was no reason why he shouldn’t.

So he traced circles over her knee in a pattern most unfamiliar to him, to comfort her.

He made her pretty promises, important ones.

Nothing entirely untrue.

Tom took undertakings rather seriously.

After all, even if one was to be devious, pursue one’s own agendas, one would not get far at all if it became known that one’s word meant fuck all.

He was not lying to her when he told her that her would not allow Karkaroff, Snape, to do her any harm.

They wouldn’t try, of course, had no reason to, but if they did, he would make sure that whatever harm they sought to inflict upon her, they would endure a thousand times over for the _audacity_ of it.

He was not lying when, upon hearing that, naturally, this, her panicked breathing and rising chest, was all for _him_ , for Harry Potter, he told her that nobody stood a chance at killing Potter in the Tournament.

It was, after all, his sole responsibility to ensure that nobody did.

To ensure that Harry Potter was the last standing, the only Champion who could _possibly_ reach the Cup.

He did not deserve the way that she looked at him, then.

He knew that.

He just didn’t _care_.

He didn’t care, because it was too much, too exquisite, that she was looking at him like he was her fucking salvation.

Like he was _everything_.

She was, he thought, looking at him the way that Harry Potter looked at _her_ , when she advised him about the Tournament, about homework.

That pathetic, unconditional _faith._

That look that said that _because_ he had her, everything was going to be alright.

And everything would.

For Hermione Granger, that was.

She said thank you.

She said thank you, and she really _shouldn’t_.

Shouldn’t say something that she would certainly come to regret most fervently, and he should not have said that out loud, had not _meant_ to -

She stayed in his quarters that night, took his bed while he worked.

She stayed, because he could not risk her wandering about, speaking to her Gryffindor friends, wondering about him, figuring it out.

She stayed, because she was frightened, frozen, still, and he was not about to send her into the shadows she fled here from, not now.

She stayed, because Tom did not want her to leave.

* * *

 

Tom is standing on the damp hill by the Quidditch Pitch, watching the chaotic storm set in with a peculiar sense of detachment.

Fleur Delacour was the first to emerge, entirely unconscious and rushed to Healers in the arms of her pallid Headmistress.

Then there was Viktor Krum, eyes clouded, shouting something nonsensical as he tore out of the maze, face littered with cuts, and Karkaroff was duly bewildered, the crowd of students and staff alike most _concerned_.

Diggory was yet to appear, which was something of a complication.

Krum was not due to return until both Delacour and Diggory had been duly redressed.

But no matter.

He had enchanted the Cup for good measure to only respond as a Portkey to _Potter’s_ touch – he wasn’t about to allow two years of careful planning to be foiled by the chance that Krum might be as rash and shoddy a help under the Imperius Curse as he was ordinarily.

Tom is leaving.

At least, he ought to be, now.

It won’t do to be around, still, when the crowd erupts into hysteria, suspicion, starts to wonder where in heavens Potter has gone.

Professor Riddle has served his purpose, and now, he is entirely unnecessary.

Dead, for all Tom is concerned.

And it is something of a shame.

He is somewhat reluctant to leave Hogwarts.

Isn’t quite eager to return to the dreary company of Lord Voldemort, and nobody else.

Of course, if the ritual works, as Voldemort swears, promises, it will, it will not only be Lord Voldemort.

They will return, all of them; the Death Eaters.

The giants.

The werewolves.

All of them, and they will bow before him once more, and his world order may be restored, born anew, and Tom will have a place in it, this time, an important one.

Voldemort _promised_.

Still, at this minute, he can’t quite manage to feel appropriately enthusiastic about it.

His gaze falls on her, not for the first time this morning.

Not for the first time since he tried to turn his back on it all, to return to his quarters, gather his things, disappear.

She has tamed her hair somewhere on the route from his room to the Pitch this morning, a hasty spell, he expects, and he thinks he liked it rather better then, when she blinked awake, face really quite enchanting, when it was not scrunched up, worried.

It had only lasted a moment, of course, but it had caught his breath in his throat, all the same.

She isn’t looking at him.

He shouldn’t be surprised.

She has been staring at the wall of deep green that Potter disappeared into ever since the canon fired, signalling the beginning of this final contest, with burning intensity, fingers tight around the rail she clung to.

Everything about the way her shoulders were set, _tense_ , lets him know that she is positively riddled with anxiety, with frustration at the fact that she is not in the maze with him, fighting his every battle for him so that he does not have to.

Tom is quite convinced that she _would_ be, somehow, were she not reassured that he would ensure Potter’s safety, today.

He sighs under his breath, absent-minded, because of course, she is only making this so much _worse_ for herself.

Still, some decidedly unpleasant sentiment twists in his chest, his stomach, making him _queasy_.

He does not want to think about what she will think of him, once she knows.

What she will think, when he disappears without so much as a word.

It feels almost _wrong_ , not to say anything to her.

She is clever, after all, and she should know that he sees that.

Sees _her_.

She should receive some explanation.

She would understand, he thinks.

Not _understand_ in the sense that she would not be perfectly livid, no; he imagines she would be.

But she would understand _how_ he had done it.

And her eyes would be _bright,_ when she learned how he enchanted the Goblet with ancient, untraceable magic, derived from runes carved into its stone, runes that only he can see.

When she learned how he had thought to turn the Cup into a Portkey.

It feels like bad form, to leave without telling her that.

He would not apologise, of course, even if he could say goodbye to her, explain.

He is not _sorry_.

Not for who he is, what he has done.

He _is_ sorry, though, that she would expect him to be.

He thinks about this morning, what she said about Dark Wizards.

About whether they are capable of reform.

It was an indulgence, he’d known it when he set the topic, because truthfully, he didn’t care for what any of his other, uninspired students thought.

Hermione thought that they could change.

Always, she thought that it was possible.

Tom thinks she is right.

He thinks that if he wanted to, he could renounce the Dark.

Voldemort could, even.

Of course it is _possible_.

The trouble is, and what Tom thinks she does _not_ understand, is that he won’t.

Nine times out of fucking ten, they won’t.

They would be mad, and stupid, and naïve, to.

Because it is a _mistake_ to conceive of magic as Dark or Light.

It is better construed, always, as strong and weak.

Tom has _been_ weak.

He grew up weak, and he forged _strength_ out of the flames in his veins, the pages of the books that he had stolen, always stolen, because he could not buy them.

Tom will not be weak again, not ever.

 And after today, _nobody_ will ever have the pleasure or the privilege of knowing strength like he will.

That, he thinks, must be it, then: the cold feeling, writhing, uncomfortable, in his chest, holding him rooted to the spot, not letting him _go_ , not yet.

He is only sorry that Hermione Granger, the brightest witch her age – the brightest witch, perhaps, he has encountered, ever – is too sanctimonious to understand it.

Tom exhales, sharp, bitter, and his breath fogs the cool air of the morning.

He should be going now.

He should be leaving, servant returning to his master.

He should be claiming his reward.

He does not move.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers, and thank you so much for soldiering through this really very long update! 
> 
> I apologise for the lack of actual progress made in this chapter - naturally there's going to be a great deal of that in subsequent chapters, and we'll pick off at the graveyard in the very next one! #prayforcedric :') 
> 
> I am so eager to hear what you think of this little look into Tom's mind, and who exactly he is (many of you guessed accurately about that, of course!). I should note that there is a great deal more to be revealed, for example, about the nature of the potion that was brewed and given to Dumbledore, Tom's two years spent with Voldemort prior to attending Hogwarts, training/preparing, in addition to how he perceived other events and conversations throughout his time as Professor Riddle that will be addressed in pieces in further chapters - I had initially intended this chapter to comprehensively reveal everything, but the word count was getting a bit nuts for that, unfortunately. From here on out, though, the story will be told from Harry's, and Tom's perspectives from time to time in addition to Hermione's. 
> 
> This is my first time writing from Tom's perspective, and honestly I found it so rewarding but also so very, very, very challenging, so I would really like to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> Thank you so much, again, to everyone for your wonderfully thoughtful comments, and thank you for the kudos!!
> 
> Addendum: I've had a few ideas about other potential fic concepts, and I figured this might be an appropriate place to see whether you guys might be interested in them. The first idea is entirely inspired by Alias-Grace, and would entail Tom Riddle being a prisoner, sentenced to Death via Dementor's kiss for the murder of his biological family: a crime he cannot remember committing. Enter Hermione: an innovative young woman skilled in retrieving lost memories, assigned to Riddle's case to determine whether he was wrongfully accused, or is in fact guilty.   
> The second idea is entirely inspired by the TV series, Scandal, and would entail a relatively young, yet married, Hermione running for Minister for Magic, and Tom Riddle, an ambitious and relentless young spin-doctor, going to dark lengths to secure her a win. Does anybody have any thoughts or feelings about either of these ideas? :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the graveyard scene :)

* * *

 

Harry can’t see.

He is a cowering mess on the ground, even as Cedric’s hands trace over his back, useless, searching, and the lightning bolt carved forever into his head is _searing_ , stabbing at his forehead like a knife, and he can’t quite tear his eyes open wide enough, and it’s just as well, because he doesn’t _want_ to see what comes next.

Merlin, he’s heard it enough times that it haunts him, wakes him in the night and morning sheathed in cold sweat, chest rising and falling too fast.

That _voice_.

His name.

He knows that it is coming; knows because the cauldron is alight with green, glowing, and the little hut is the same, telling him that somebody is _home_ , and the voice comes next, has always come next, but it hasn’t happened yet-

It hasn’t happened yet.

He has time.

Not a lot of it.

A number of seconds, perhaps.

But Harry has _time_ , and so he can’t bloody well waste it thinking about how terribly badly his scar burns, how terribly badly he wants to wake up.

Gritting his teeth, Harry drags himself rough from the ground, knees damp with dirt, now, and he grips Cedric by the shoulders, shoves him, desperate, towards the Cup, even as the boy asks him, bewildered, what on earth the matter is.  

There is a _creak_ , now, a steady whine coming from the hut, metres away; the sound of feet shifting on the floorboards within, moving toward the door, and the Cup glints at him, taunting, from too _far_ away.

Too numb to curse under his breath, Harry drags Cedric by the collar of his shirt behind the skeletal figure marking Tom Riddle’s grave, slams him into the cold stone, even as Cedric meets his eyes, frantic.

“Harry,” he says, voice husky, a quizzical look on his face, a worried one, still gleaming with a thin layer of sweat, courtesy of the blasted maze- the maze that Harry would give anything to return to, now. “What-”

Harry’s wand is in hand and slashing through the air, hasty, clumsy, in an instant.

“ _Silencio.”_

Cedric’s eyes widen, face contorts, angry, _confused_ , and his lips move, still, but to no avail.

Harry exhales, staggers, dizzying relief sending his legs trembling, and he steadies himself on the bones of the figure they cower behind.

“I need you to listen to me,” Harry whispers, free hand coming to grip Cedric’s chin, not roughly. “Whatever happens, stay quiet and don’t move. Do you understand?”

Cedric shakes his head, vehement, and a ripple of pain laces through Harry’s scar, and his eyes crunch shut with the sudden hurt-

There is a sound, now.

There is a sound, and it stops Harry’s heart.

A door, unceremoniously thrown _open_ , and through the cracks in Tom Riddle’s bones, Harry can see light falling across the grass to reveal a person, cloaked, moving, moving towards them -  

Cedric’s lips are moving, now, frantic.

_Who is that?_

They are saying.

Harry’s mouth is _dry,_ sore, and he can’t fucking think, and he wants to wake up and he wants to go home and he wants Hermione to tell him what he does now, wants her voice in his head-

_Your wand, Harry._

It is what she said, shouted, really, in the first task.

He was hiding then, too, behind a boulder that felt strong until the Horntail turned it to ash with a single breath.

He’ll have to fight.

He needs to accept that, to understand, and he needs to be _ready_.

But first –

He hesitates, eyes darting to Cedric’s, and the muscles in his chest tighten, because this boy – this strange and light and _kind_ boy - should not be here, cannot be.

Cedric does not have to fight.

Harry does not have to accept _that_.

For the second time tonight, he trains his wand on the Hufflepuff.

“ _Petrificus Totalus,”_ he hisses, low under his breath, and as Cedric’s muscles spasm, freeze, lock in their place, and his eyes wide with betrayal, concern.

Harry hopes to any and all bloody Gods there are that he will understand.

“Please,” he says, scarcely a whisper, eyes imploring, bearing into his, and the anger that had so fleetingly sparked in Cedric’s evaporates, at once, displaced only by concern, and something else that has Harry’s chest stuttering.

He swallows, hard.

He throws himself out from behind the statue, holding his wand in both hands, firm over his head; ready for a threat.

Ready for a duel.

“Stay back,” he demands, trying as he might to stop his voice from shaking.

He squints.

It is a man.

A rather short, stumpy man, one Harry has seen before, though a deep hood conceals his features.

He is carrying something, something enveloped in black velvet.

Something _moving_.

“ _Harry Potter.”_

He has heard it before.

Heard it every damn night.

Heard that it was cold, high _, soft,_ somehow.

He has never felt it before.

Not like this.

The surge of pain that assaults his scar now hits Harry, hits him like a physical blow, and he is unsteady on his feet, ankles giving out-

“ _Expelliarmus.”_

The voice is gruff, whining, under the hood.

Harry’s wand falls without a fight.

* * *

 

It is Wormtail.

Peter Pettigrew, otherwise, and Scabbers, to Ron, the slimy rat, in every sense of the word.

It is the physical manifestation of _cowardice_ , the man who had sold his parents to Voldemort, torn his childhood from him in a damned second, just because it was easier.

The man who had thrown himself at Harry’s feet, a sobbing mess, spluttering, asking for mercy, and Harry had given it, given him all the mercy he deserved: the right to die in Azkaban, and not at the hands of Sirius Black.

It seems he has since found somebody else’s feet to throw himself down at.

And if Harry didn’t already know who, deep in his bones, his chest, his scar is _screaming_ it at him, now.

_Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort._

_Fuck._

Harry sees Pettigrew’s face, wide and unpleasant as ever, ears too big and tufts of hair littering an otherwise bald head, as his hood pools around his shoulders.

Pettigrew does not bother to lift it again.

“ _You_ ,” Harry says, and he is befuddled and he is afraid and he feels this terrible sense of _dread,_ because this part was not in the dream; this part is unknown, and Harry has no clue what is happening, but he is sure this isn’t the Tournament, not anymore.

Pettigrew’s eyes are nervous, beady, as they meet his.

Without a word, his wand is squarely directed at Harry’s chest, and then there is some magic, strong, unrelenting, pushing him _backward_ until Harry’s spine collides harshly with the front of the morbid statue, the harbinger of death that Cedric is silent, unmoving, behind.

As though acting reflectively, the arms of the figure of stone and bone cross tight around him at once, binding Harry in his place, pressing on his lungs with force that has him _gasping._

Harry winces at the jarring contact, but he is glad, all the same.

At least this way, he stands in the way of the outline of Cedric’s body, paralysed on the other side of this peculiar stone grave.

At least this way, Pettigrew will not find him.

If his immense relief shows, Pettigrew has not noticed.

He has turned his back on Harry, now; is marching hastily, purposefully, towards the alarmingly sizeable Cauldron burning green.

Something dark is already thick and churning inside it, though Harry can’t be sure if it was there before.

“ _Do it, now.”_

There’s that voice again; piercing, gentle, sending a tremor through Harry’s very bones, and it is coming from that _thing_ in Wormtail’s arms, draped in blankets.

Obedient, Pettigrew unfolds the velvet, revealing something truly ghastly, and Harry’s eyes are wide, breath is strained as he leans forward, tries to get a proper look at the inhuman being that squirms there –

Harry catches a glimpse of wrinkled skin, grey, pink, yellow slitted eyes, before it tumbles into the cauldron.

His scar twinges, erratic.

Wormtail whips around, now, and in the dark that encases the little graveyard, he looks something truly awful, frightening.

He is not looking at Harry.

“Bone,” he says, to nobody, it seems, in particular, “of the father,” he has reached Tom Riddle’s grave, taken a firm grip with stubby fingers around one of the more flimsy bones in the torso, to Harry’s right.

He thinks of Cedric, heart _racing_ -

Wormtail pulls, rough, and Harry hears _splintering_ –

“Unwillingly given.”

 _Tearing_ the bone from the grave, Pettigrew scurries, ever dutiful, to the cauldron, casts it in after the peculiar body.

So this is a ritual, Harry realises; a spell.

He swallows, uneasy, even as Pettigrew searches his pockets, emerges with a knife, thick and glinting under the dim light of the flickering cauldron flames.

He looks ill, now, mouth trembling.

“Flesh,” he says, uneven, barely a whisper, “of the servant, willingly sacrificed.”

His voice breaks on the last note, and his eyes are closed, tight, and before Harry has the sense to close his own, Pettigrew is holding his arm out over the cauldron and the knife is slashing _down_ , meeting flesh and bone, and Pettigrew is screaming, guttural and ugly.

Harry watches in disgusted disbelief as the hand drops into the cauldron, unable to look away, and Wormtail is positively whimpering, now, dark red seeping from his raw wrist, and he nurses it in his robes, face contorted with pain, wipes down the ruined blade with the same material.

His eyes dart to Harry, tongue tracing over his lips, something sadistic in his gaze, now.

“Blood,” he says, with some sense of relish, “of the enemy.”

Harry’s heart is pounding in his ears, and he is squirming, now, because fuck, if that isn’t him, and fuck if he doesn’t feel like losing a limb right now, like Pettigrew had so awfully done, doesn’t feel like being drained out like a vampire’s victim-

“Forcibly taken.”

There is something very cold pressed into his bare wrist, now, and he flinches, and then it isn’t cold, anymore.

Then, it is red hot and burning and slicing through skin, and Harry cannot help but grunt in pain, wriggle and tense as he strains away from the blade, but even as he does, it seems that the death statue grips him closer, still.

Wormtail steps back, examining the bright red droplets clinging to the weapon with a satisfied look about him.

Blood.

Harry’s.

He watches it drip down, into the cauldron, watches the curious concoction inside sizzle, smoke, at impact.

They both do.

“The Dark Lord,” Pettigrew murmurs, “shall rise again.”

On his very last word, the terrible potion seems to ignite _, boil_ , and suddenly it is folding _in_ on itself, melting into the cauldron, or perhaps it is the cauldron that is melting into its contents, and everything is dripping black, like tar, the smell certainly as foul, and Harry’s scar is as fierce and unforgiving as the fire that burns it, still, until it _shifts_ , somehow, dark shadows _tangible_ in the air, and some shape is forming in the chaos, something grey and skeletal and absolutely alien to him, but it is a body, yes, that much is clear, now, and the sharper with which a figure constructs itself out of the bones, the flesh, the blood, the cauldron, the sharper the sting of Harry’s forehead, the louder the hum, incessant in his ears, screaming, screaming, screaming, and he closes his eyes-

It stops.

Everything stops, and Harry’s breaths are staggered when at last, he wrenches his eyes open, forces himself to confront the nightmare that he knows, knows, stands before him, now.

It is not a man.

Not quite.

Then again, Harry had not expected to see a man.

Voldemort was not the kind to look remotely like it.

Certainly, he had not been a man in first year, twisted and chained to the back of Professor Quirrell’s head under that odorous turban of his.

He had not been a man, either, Harry thinks, when he murdered his parents, like it was nothing.

When he tried to kill Harry, too.  

A man would not have done that.

A man could not have done that.

So no, he is not quite a man.

His skin is too grey, the form too skeletal, as though made up of mere bones, jutting out at the cheekbones to create something altogether menacing, wrong, a puzzle whose pieces have been forced together too fast and too hard.

His eyes are the worst of it.

Because they should be human.

Merlin, aren’t eyes the only thing, really, that reveals human beings to one another?

Voldemort’s are a pallid grey, gentle, and that should not be as frightening, as threatening, as they _feel,_ but they are so empty-

His feet are bare on the damp ground of the graveyard, standing where the cauldron once sat, proud and peculiar.

He is touching its face, tracing over the bare head, the narrow chin, slow, careful.

He is –

_Powerful._

Harry can feel it, as though it is some tangible thing, some force, because there is magic, now, that seems to suffocate his own, thick and strong and absolutely saturating the air, and he has never felt anything like it before, and it is transfixing and it is terrifying.

Wormtail collapses, now, awe and agony chasing each other across his broad features as he cradles his wound, bright eyes fixed on his Master.

“My Lord,” he is mumbling, over and over. “My Lord.”

When Lord Voldemort inhales, it is _sharp,_ audible, and Harry flinches, scar almost numb, now, and he is light-headed, _dazed_ with it, as though he could pass out at any moment, and he does not know why Voldemort has not looked at him yet, but he hopes he never does.

Voldemort is looking at his feet, instead, as they shift, one tentative step after the other, towards his servant.

“My wand, Wormtail,” he says, slow, testing the words as they leave his lips.

It hasn’t changed; his voice.

It is soft, still, and Harry does not understand, because nothing as horrendous as this creature, this killer, should ever be allowed to sound _soft_.

Hasty, Wormtail sinks into a deep bow, presents something, a rather intricately adorned wand, from his robes, and Voldemort swoops it into his own fingers in a single, fluid motion.

A tremor seems to course through the Dark wizard upon contact, and he closes his eyes, something like a smile twisting his thin mouth.

“Hold out your arm, Wormtail.”

 “Oh, Master, thank you, Master,” Wormtail is almost crying as relief floods his face, and, eager, he bears his butchered arm.

“The _other_ arm, Wormtail,” Voldemort says, cutting, harsh, and some measure of light vacates Pettigrew’s eyes, desperate.

Silent, save for whimpering that makes Harry nauseous, Pettigrew obeys.

Voldemort’s eyes seem to brighten as they fall on the man’s wrist, and, at a glimpse of it, the Dark Mark that curls there, writhing, as though aware of what has just occurred, Harry understands why.

He thinks he might really be sick, now.

Gripping Wormtail’s arm with digging fingers, Voldemort presses the very tip of his wand to the Mark with a pressure that has the servant grimacing.

There is a crack, then, loud, sobering, and Harry can only watch, now.

Only watch, as the sky seems to break above him.

Only watch, as it appears again, in the sky, as it had in the Summer, as it did in his dreams.

The Dark Mark, comprised of dark cloud and shadow, roaring in the heavens, humming, somehow, something deep and ominous, the hissing of a serpent.

That is when they come, announcing their arrivals each with a loud slam and a spiral of dark matter, robes to match, and a silver mask, glinting under the moon and stars.

 _Death Eaters_.

And Merlin, if Harry wasn’t fucked before, he is now.

If Harry wasn’t fucked before, now, he’s as good as dead.

* * *

 

Harry doesn’t _know_ what happens next.

He concerns himself most of all with staying conscious, something that his burning scar is rendering near impossible, and the searing of the Mark in the sky is all he can hear –

Voldemort is _furious_.

Disappointed with the Death Eaters, the failures that they proved to be, _disloyal_ , and he unmasks them, one by one, showing Harry their faces even as they crumble to the ground in shame, throw themselves at their Master’s feet, because Merlin knows, that is where he wants them.

Lucius Malfoy is one, and Harry is not surprised.

He wonders if Draco knows.

Wormtail is whimpering, still, tears streaking his face, and Voldemort snaps at him, something about how he serves only out of fear.

Still, he gives him what he wants; fashions a rippling, silver hand to replace the one that he had lost, and Wormtail’s eyes glow as he holds it up to the light of the moon, praises his Master for the mercy he has shown him.

Harry is going to die.

He is bloody strapped to the grave of some sod called Tom Riddle – Voldemort’s father, if what Wormtail said was true, could possibly be – and there are a good half dozen Death Eaters in a half-moon circle around him, and Voldemort is back, has a body, and his power saturates the air, is splitting Harry’s head in two.

He is going to die, and he supposes it doesn’t much matter that he really doesn’t want to.

Doesn’t matter that he never got to tell Hermione, Ron, goodbye, and thanks.

But _Cedric_ –

Fuck.

Harry’s spells won’t last forever.

But if he is clever, he might just make it.

If he is clever, he will cast one spell, only one, the moment Harry’s _silencio_ expires:

_Accio Cup._

It is not too late for him, not yet.

He is not supposed to be here.

He is not supposed to be here, but Harry is.

“ _Harry.”_

He starts, awake, now, _somehow_ , alert.

Because Voldemort is in front of him, looking at him, at last, lip curled, angry.

He is so close, and Harry should be afraid.

Merlin, he’s fucking petrified.

But-

_You killed my parents. Why did you kill my parents?_

It is all he can manage to think.

“I’d almost forgotten you were here – standing on the bones of my father,” he nearly _laughs_ , then, and he takes a step closer, sending Harry’s scar to flames, and he winces, and oh, it does not escape Voldemort’s attentions.

“I’d introduce you but word has it you’re almost as _famous_ as me, these days,” he says, cool, and his eyes glint, dangerous, livid.

He turns his back, now, addresses the Death Eaters that kneel, scattered, around the graveyard, mocking.

“The Boy Who Lived.”

There is a low hum of jeers, chuckles, that ripples through the small assembly that surrounds them.

With a sneer, Voldemort jerks his head back to Harry.

“What lies have fed your legend, Harry. Shall I reveal what really happened that night, fourteen years ago? Shall I divulge how I truly lost my powers?”

He steps back, and it is almost performative, the way he raises his hand, fist clenched, looks around at his subjects, ensure that they are paying due _attention._

“It was love,” he says, and hearing that word, _that_ word on his tongue, is jarring, wrong. “You see, when dear, sweet Lily Potter gave her life for her only son she provided the ultimate protection. I could not touch him.”

He grimaces, turns to his Death Eaters.

“It was old magic, something I should have foreseen,” he admits. “But no matter, no matter, things have changed.”

He grins, now, bears all his teeth and they are too sharp to be human.

He vanishes.

He vanishes, but only for a moment.

In that instant, he is _upon_ Harry, his breath, putrid, freezing on Harry’s skin, and his heart is hammering, veins tearing themselves apart from the inside-

“I can touch you _now_.”

A finger, slender, delicate –

Voldemort presses it into Harry’s scar.

And everything within him is _screaming_ , now, and he can’t _see,_ can’t fucking see-

This is it, then.

Surely, this is how it happens.

Because he can’t survive this sensation, doesn’t _want_ to –

He catches a glint of Voldemort’s razor grin in the dark, catches him dropping his arm-

The pressure is gone, leaving Harry panting, eyes wet with tears that have not yet spilled.

“Astonishing what a few drops of your blood will do, is it not?” Voldemort says, contemplative.

He turns, then, sudden, _erratic_ , and he is impatient, irritable.

“Pick up your wand, Potter,” he snaps.

He waves his arm, and the statute that hugs Harry close releases him, sending him stumbling, clumsy, onto his knees, and he looks around, dazed.

“I said pick it up,” Voldemort says, harsh. “ _Get up_ , get up.”

Some force _pulls_ him, then, drags him to his feet before he can get his bearings, wand thrust into his fingers before he can properly _look_ for it.

“You’ve been taught how to duel, I presume, yes? First, we bow to each other,” Voldemort drawls. “Come now, Harry. Dumbledore wouldn’t want you to forget your manners, would he? I said _bow_.”

He jerks his arm before him, unceremonious, and Harry jolts.

 _The Imperius Curse_ ; that is what this is, the only thing it can be.

This unbearable pressure, forcing his spine down _low,_ forcing him to show basic duelling etiquette to this monster of a man.

This is what he wants, Harry realises.

A public fight.

A public victory.

Because he is humiliated; endlessly _bothered_ by the fact that Harry’s mother bested him.

That her love meant something real.

Harry grit his teeth.

“That’s better,” Voldemort says. “ _Now_.”

He is moving, too fast, and Harry blinks -

“ _Crucio_.”

Harry remembers what Professor Riddle had said, about the Cruciatus Curse.

A Latin term used to neatly describe excruciating, unbearable pain.

And it is.

 _Unbearable_ , that is.

He is vaguely aware that he has hit the ground like a rag doll, is _seizing_ , limbs jerking outside of his control, body contorted as it slams into the dirt.

Vaguely aware that he is screaming, tears streaking down his face in earnest, now, and the Death Eaters have noticed, are laughing.

Vaguely aware that the world has turned perfectly red.  

Harry has never known relief like he does when it _stops,_ albeit to the sound of Lord Voldemort, high voice revealing the extent of his immense amusement.

“Atta boy, Harry. Your parents would be proud,” he hisses. “Especially your filthy Muggle mother-”

Harry _snaps._

His mother.

His brilliant, _magical_ mother, the one he knew only in photographs, in the stories that Remus and Sirius told him, the endless stream of witches and wizards lining up to tell him that he had her eyes, nevermind that he didn’t have _her_.

Voldemort had no right to speak of her.

No bloody right to mock _her_ , not when Harry has anything to say about it.

His fingers curl in, hard, and he is drawing in a breath, reaching for his magic -

“ _Expelliarmus!”_

Harry suppresses a _gasp,_ a whimper, because it is not him.

It is not him, and for a painfully hopeful moment, he looks to the Death Eaters – to Peter Pettigrew, Lucius Malfoy, because Merlin, if it was them, if it was _them_ , he had a chance-

But it wasn’t.

And Harry’s heart sinks.

Because there is only one person it can be, now.

Slow, reluctant, he turns.

_Cedric._

Deadly as Harry has ever seen him, stepped out from behind the gravestone Harry had tried to secure him behind, teeth grit and wand at the ready and eyebrows drawn in, a scowl fashioning his features into something Harry has never seen him wear before, something bold-

Voldemort casts the spell away from him with a lazy flick of his fingers, but his eyes _narrow_ at Cedric, now, a wide, wolfish grin twisting his features.

* * *

 

“Potter,” Lord Voldemort says, and he is delighted. “You brought a friend. How – touching.”

“You’re him, aren’t you?” Cedric says, jaw tight, Harry imagines, to stop it from trembling.

“Get out of here, Cedric,” Harry croaks, weak in the aftermath of _crucio._

Cedric’s eyes flicker toward his, uncertain, but he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t fucking move, and Harry wants to cry.

“And miss all the fun we’re going to have?” Voldemort says, eyes flashing. “The boy isn’t going anywhere, Potter. Besides, he has asked me a question.”

He grins, and with a twist, a burst of dark smoke that lingers in the air, he is gone, rematerializing only centimetres from Cedric in but an instant.

 The boy swallows, takes a shaky step backward-  

“Yes,” Voldemort breathes, “I am _him_. I believe you may know me as He Who Must Not Be Named. I assure you, I like ‘My Lord’ much better.”

Cedric inhales sharply, and he makes some sound, like a wounded animal-

Voldemort tilts his head.

His fingers snake around Cedric’s chin, force him to look him in the eye, and the sight of it- that ghoulish hand _daring_ to touch someone as good as Cedric, as kind, has something new burning in Harry, and it isn’t like _crucio,_ isn’t anything like his scar, isn’t pain, but anger- _fury._

He has no _right._

“Such a handsome boy,” he murmurs. “Brave, though terribly foolish. Another Gryffindor, I take it?”

“Hufflepuff,” Cedric grits his teeth, and despite everything, perhaps because of everything, Harry thinks he sounds proud.

His heart pangs. 

Voldemort holds Cedric's gaze for a lingering moment before he lets go.  

“Hufflepuff,” he repeats, amusement alive in his eyes. “Well isn’t this marvellous? It has been a long while since I’ve heard a Hufflepuff _sing_. My friends,” he turns, speaks to the unmasked men, now. “Has it not been a long while?”

“Too long, Master!” somebody, a wiry man Harry thinks Voldemort called ‘Avery’, shouts.

“Let us _have_ him, My Lord,” another, who Harry does not recognise, and his teeth look more like fangs in the dark. “For old time’s sake.”

Voldemort’s lip twitches, some harrowing brand of smile setting in on his face, and he raises a single finger, silences them all, because they are afraid of him.

The Death Eaters- Merlin, they are as frightened as Harry is.

“Patience,” Voldemort muses. “You will have your time. For now…”

Before Harry can say a thing, do a damn _thing_ , his wand slashes through air, sharp, _once._

Only once.

It is enough.

“ _Protego_!” Cedric shouts, and even as the shield of white light erupts from the tip of his wand, Voldemort’s ripples through, tearing it to pieces-

Cedric is on his _knees_.

Shaking.

Spluttering.

Choking.

 _Screaming_.

Biting his lip until it splits, and the blood is dripping down his chin, filling his mouth so that he cannot breathe, cannot possibly.

_Crucio._

It can only be _crucio._

And this, this, is worse than the scar.

This is _worse_ than enduring it himself.

This is worse than anything Harry has ever dreamed.

_Cowards._

That is what Hermione had said, about the curse.

About the people who used it. 

“Cedric!” 

His voice is too weak, too broken, and so he is crawling, now, frantic, to the boy's side, grips his hand even as it jolts, erratic.

“ _Cedric_.”

Harry is fairly certain he is crying, now. 

Cedric’s eyes find Harry’s, and they are wide, frightened beyond belief, in pain beyond belief, and Harry understands, because he can still feel it, too, sending a tremor through his own burning veins.

"It's okay," Cedric mumbles, and it is a cruel lie to tell, even as his eyes roll back, and he opens his mouth, to say it again, but he  _can't._

There is too much blood.

 Desperate, Harry turns to Voldemort, fingers curled into fists, nails breaking the skin of his palms-

“Stop this. Stop it _now_ , get away from him- I’m the one you want.”

Voldemort looks at him, blank, lazy.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to say _please_ , Potter?”

With a rough jolt of his wand, a fresh curse tears through the ice air, slams into Cedric’s side, and he _moans_ -

Harry grits his teeth.

Opens his mouth, but he can’t do it, can’t fucking do it-

His fingers tighten around his wand.

 _Expelliarmus,_ he thinks, but Merlin, what bloody good will that do?

Voldemort doesn’t need his wand to torture Cedric.

He doesn’t need it to kill him.

And even if Harry says it, even if he begs, he won’t stop.

He isn’t _like_ Harry, isn’t like any wizard Harry knows.

Looking at him now, inhaling, long, slow, through the _slits_ that sit where a nose might go, eyes eerie, absent and alive all at once, he does not look like any wizard Harry knows.

He looks like some _thing_ , some _animal_ , entirely captivated in instinct, nothing less.

Harry blinks, _remembers_ something, now, though it’s hardly the fucking time for reminiscing-

Yellow eyes, glowering at him from behind the flimsy bars of a cage in the classroom.

Professor Riddle, addressing apprehensive pupils, tone ever conversational.

_The Unforgiveable Curses are the only spells ancient enough, powerful enough, to overcome such a formidable animal. Sometimes, only dark is capable of overcoming dark._

He pants, mind whirling.

_Sometimes, only dark is capable-_

_Sometimes-_

Lord Voldemort is not a man.

He is not a wizard, and he is not bound by the same rules as Harry, has broken them all before his eyes, tonight, and will only keep breaking them.

He is a monster, a legend, a fucking nightmare, and he is torturing Cedric Diggory, and for that, he has no _right_ to anything, anymore.

Not mercy.

Not fairness.

Not from him.

_Only dark is capable –_

_I’m not convinced Potter is capable of casting a spell other than expelliarmus._

Harry swallows, closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he is not afraid anymore.

When he opens them, he is calm.

He is certain.

Voldemort raises his arm, propels it forward, toward Cedric, another bout of the Cruciatus Curse, as his sorry mob egg him on with low whistles and grunts.

Harry raises his, faster, and he does not flinch when he says it, does not hesitate, never-mind how foreign it feels on his tongue, because it does not feel _wrong_.

“ _Avada Kadavra_.”

* * *

 

Fierce green erupts from his wand, strikes the skies, and something _splits_ , casting a glow across Harry’s face, Cedric’s, and his spell firing toward the Dark Lord where he stands, frozen, for a second, and his eyes _widen_ as he realises that it has _worked,_ that Harry meant it, truly _meant_ it-

There is a loud crack, and Voldemort disparate in an infuriating instant, even as Harry’s curse strikes the ground where he had stood, mere moments ago.

The grass crumbles to dust.

When he reappears, Voldemort is further from him, reeling, _panting_ , eyes alight with something new.

The Death Eaters are not jeering anymore, though they are standing.

Cedric lies still, eyes half-closed, though Harry can feel his breath, a small blessing, warming the back of his wrist as he leans over him, defensive.

“Well, now,” Voldemort says, _unnervingly_ soft, “you’ve learned a new trick, Potter.”  

“Had a good teacher,” Harry says, muscles clenching. “Stay _back_. Stay away from Cedric.”

Voldemort pauses, eyes glinting and forehead crinkled, as though he is deep in thought, for a moment before he laughs low under his breath.

It is a decidedly unpleasant sound.

“Do you think you can kill me, Harry?” he says, light, mocking, but curious, more than anything.

_Do you think you can kill me._

Harry stares at his wand, shudders at the aura that seems to cling to it, the foul smell, still, residue from the Unforgiveable Curse that he commanded it to cast.

Yesterday, he would have said no.

Yesterday, he would have said that he would never perform an Unforgiveable, never could.

Yesterday, he could not have imagined Cedric Diggory, choking on his own blood in a lonely graveyard.  

He draws himself to his feet.

“I think I already did,” Harry swallows, hard.

He meets Voldemort’s eyes.

“I think my _Muggle_ mother already did.”

Voldemort _snarls_ , and he does not reach for his wand, does not need to, but Harry is ready all the same –

“ _Avada Kadavra!”_ he shouts it again, even as a bolt of harsh green flies his way from the palm of Voldemort’s wiry hand, the same spell, and Harry flinches, steps back, waits for it to take him –

It doesn’t.

More’s the pity, Harry’s does not do the same to Voldemort, either.

Something quite extraordinary happens instead.

Something _mesmerizing_.

Because the spells _collide,_ green grating against green, and Harry feels it in his whole body – the push of Voldemort’s curse sending him staggering backward like a gust of wind, the pressure mounting, and he brings his second fist tight around his wand, digs his feet firm into the earth, _fights_ -

Voldemort’s eyes flash in the green, some look in them that tells Harry that he doesn’t know what this is, either, but that does not mean that he does not intend to _win._

He wields his wand with both hands, now, and the magic that surges between them, threatening to blast them both to _pieces_ , is crackling like a whip in the night.

The Death Eaters are approaching, now, and Lucius Malfoy is reaching for his wand-

“Do nothing,” Voldemort snaps, “he’s mine to finish. _Mine_.”

“Harry.”

It is Cedric- a murmur below him, faint, as the boy stirs, and he really shouldn’t be moving right now, really should be healing-

Harry pushes it from his mind, eyes fixed on Voldemort, the line of power that ebbs between them.

“Harry,” Cedric croaks, firm, this time, even over the roar of their magic. “Tell my father I love him, won’t you?”

Voldemort’s curse _rips_ toward Harry at alarming velocity, and he growls, clenches his fists, pushes it _back,_ sending the other wizard’s brows up, lip curling into an unpleasant sneer-

“Tell him yourself,” Harry pants. “Get out of here, Cedric. _Please_.”

“No,” Cedric says, and there is some sombre note to his voice, some sense of finality, that demands Harry’s attention.

Hesitant, he glances down.

Cedric is looking at him, head tilted up on the ground, and in the glowing green of the dark curses that pollute the air around him, he looks beautiful, even with the blood staining his chin.

He smiles.

Smiles, as though at a secret only Harry knows.

 _Smiles_ , and something in Harry breaks.

Because Cedric is holding his wand.

“Cedric,” he says, slow, warning -

It twitches once in his fingers, pointed at something Harry cannot see.

“ _Vade ad eum.”_

_Go to him._

It is quiet, a spell meant only for Harry to hear, and by the time he _understands,_ it is too late.

It is already hurtling toward him; the Cup.

Blue and brilliant and light in this wretched dark, and tears through the war of _avada kadavras_ waging in front of him, _breaks_ it, slams into his fingers, jarring them –

The graveyard begins to _tilt_ , now.

It begins to tilt, and Harry feels sick to his stomach, because he knows what that means, knows that he is going home.

Knows what it means that Cedric is not holding it with him.

“Cedric, _no_ ,” he says, desperate, and he scrambles toward the boy, Cup outstretched in his hand.

Cedric does not raise his own to meet it.

“Harry,” he says, voice rough, low. “You should know-”

And Harry _wants_ to know.

More than that, he wants to scream.

Wants to ask why Cedric is doing this, why he didn’t just take it for himself when Voldemort only ever wanted _him_.

Why he didn’t fight harder to meet Harry halfway, to reach out, just for a _moment_.

He wants to tell Cedric he would rather die here then go back without him, that Cedric is an idiot for ever thinking anything less.

He wants to tell Cedric bloody _everything_ –

But everything is dark, now.

Everything is spinning.

And too fucking soon, everything is gone.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! 
> 
> First - apologies, this chapter was so very rushed and if I have the chance I will edit it thoroughly. I wanted to publish it now in any case because I'm about to become rather busy again and this way I feel like I can progress more with writing subsequent chapters (which I am more excited to write). Apologies, too, for the lack of Hermione or Tom in this chapter - obviously, they will feature heavily in the next one, though! 
> 
> Second- you guys genuinely blew me away with your wonderfully generous responses to last chapter, and I truly cannot thank you enough! I am still to respond to a couple yet, but just know that I appreciate hearing your thoughts so very much :) 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear what you make of this one!


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

 

Hermione almost cries when Harry Potter appears out of _nothing_ with a sharp crack, crashing gracelessly into the earth in the centre of the arena, glasses askew and hair a mess of leaves and dirt.

Almost cries because _thank god_ , he is alive, and the band is announcing it with cheerful vigour, the crowd with applause and shouts.

Almost cries because _thank god,_ this is just a competition, and he is just a contestant, and, if the Cup gleaming periwinkle in his hands is anything to go by, he is just the _winner_.

“Riddle one, Karkaroff nil,” Ron leans in to murmur, and his hand is warm, comforting, as it clasps her shoulder.

“Oh _Harry_.” Hermione exhales slow, the overwhelming sensation of relief rendering her rather light-heated.

“Come on,” Ron says. “We’d better get down there.”

His hand falls to her wrist, tugging, hasty, as they wind their way through the crowd of Gryffindors now roaring, delighted, proud, on their feet, Seamus, Dean, Parvati, all circling Harry where he lies, stomach flat against the earth.

He is shaking.

Overcome, she expects, and frightened, as Krum was, as Fleur had been.

Happy, even, laughing.

He isn’t, of course.

She sees that when they reach the foot of the stairs, a modest crowd clustered between them, still.

Harry is not laughing.

Hermione hesitates, bites her lip.

He is crying.

Hermione has only seen Harry cry once, before.

He was thirteen, then, huddled in the Hogsmeade snow under his invisibility cloak so that they would not see.

He had just heard something that he was never supposed to; a lie, they know now, but then, it had been the only truth they knew to accept: that Sirius Black was his godfather. That it was _he_ who went to Voldemort with a convenient little map guiding him straight to Lily and James Potter and their son.

It was only natural that he was crying, then, and she was not surprised to see it.

In truth, it had been something of a comfort.  

The fact that somebody who was brave enough to march into the girl’s bathroom in first year because he had heard that the bushy haired girl from Charms class was alone there, save for the troll, brave enough to face his parent’s murderer alone in the dungeons under the school at eleven years old, was not immune to the tedious and humiliating human condition of crying.

It was not that he had been sad, though.

‘ _Sad_ ’ was not the look she’d seen, carved into his features that day.

It isn’t the look she sees now, squinting from across the pitch.

He had been _angry_.

 _Trembling_ with it, jaw taut and clenched and eyes flashing with something dangerous, some frustrated helplessness.

He was furious with Sirius Black, and he wanted the man to know it.

Wanted the man to _find_ him.

Hermione stiffens, exchanges a look with Ron.

He swallows, uneasy, and he opens his mouth –

Harry speaks first.

“Cedric. _”_

Fleur reaches him first, fingers skirting over his shoulder, and she is saying something quickly that Hermione can’t quite make out.

Harry blinks, dazed, at the girl, shakes his head.

 _“_ Cedric, Cedric – fuck, it’s your fault, it’s all your _fault,_ you _can’t_ -”

He _slams_ his palm against the Cup, now, hard, and he is left grimacing, palm split open on the rough edges of his prize.

“Take me _back_ ,” he bellows, and the sound of it, too loud and too broken to make any semblance of sense, sends the band trailing off, the curious hum of the crowd breaking off.

Harry is not looking at them: any of them, least of all Ron and Hermione.

His attention is fixed squarely on the Cup, face scowling, contorted with some horror, desperation, that Hermione cannot name, and, over and over again, he slams his hand against it with an urgency that she cannot _understand_.

Harry Potter is crying.

Harry Potter is _bleeding_ , arm split, and it is a rather neat slice, long up his arm, and deep, nothing like the shallow scratches that litter Fleur’s face, from the maze.

“Something isn’t right,” Hermione says, sudden, fast.

“You _think_?” Ron says, sardonic, but he is pale. “Where the bloody hell is Cedric?”

Hermione shakes her head, eyes searching for Karkaroff.

He is standing to the side, a hand on Krum’s shoulder, and there is some look of utter confusion twisting his features that cannot be anything but entirely genuine.

“The show is over,” somebody says, smooth, clear. "Return to your seats." 

Hermione blinks.

She was quite certain Professor Riddle hadn’t been in the vicinity of the pitch – she had checked.

He is beside Harry, now, has pushed past Fleur, and he bends his knees to crouch beside him, murmurs something, close to his ear, his hand at Harry’s arm, the very picture of concern.

Harry only shakes his head, frantic, adamant.

Riddle sighs, scowls at the audience accumulating around him, still.

“I believe I said the show is over,” he says, seething. “You will return to your seats. _Now._ ”

He does not goad them by dangling weekend detention before them all.

He does not have to.

There is some warning in his eyes, fierce, frightening, that has them scurrying back to the stands they’ve come from at once.

With a tug, then, he pulls Harry to his feet, an arm sliding behind his shoulders to support him even as his legs begin to crumble, stagger, beneath him; even as Harry’s head falls to his shoulder, buried into his robes. Even as Harry groans, shakes his head, says ‘ _take me back’_ , keeps saying it, voice hoarse.

The Cup is still dangling from between his blood-stained fingers.

Professor Riddle is guiding Harry to the castle, Hermione realises, and she is grateful.

Because she does not know what happened in that maze.

But she knows that she has only seen Harry Potter cry once, before.

She knows what had happened, then.

And so she knows that whatever this is, now, is something awful.

Knows that this, the middle of a Quidditch Pitch chockful of leering students chanting and waving bright banners, scrutinising him, is the last place in the world he needs to be.

She steps forward as they shift past her where she stands, still, with Ron.

“Harry-”

“ _Granger_ ,” Riddle says, eyes darkening. “I believe I told you to return to your seats.”

At the beginning of this year, that biting edge to his tone might have made her knees tremble and sent a flush across her cheeks.

But she has _seen_ him, now – knows him.

She has felt his hand on her knee tracing circles, warming her, eyes open and inexplicably kind.

She has called him Tom, and Tom does not intimidate her, not anymore.

Hermione only lifts her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Rubbish. We’re coming with you.”

“Dumbledore,” Harry croaks, lifts his head only slightly from where it is buried in Riddle’s shoulder, and Hermione suppresses a _wince,_ because Merlin, he looks broken. “I have to tell Dumbledore – he has to know- he can save him.”

“Save who?” Ron says, bewildered, though he must know the answer.

Hermione catches Harry’s hand with her own.

“Harry-”

“ _Cedric_ ,” Harry says through grit teeth. “He’s still there – in the graveyard.”

“Graveyard?” Ron says, something grim setting in his face, and all at once, Hermione _understands_.

“No,” she whispers. “Harry, you don’t mean-”

“ _Enough.”_

Riddle cuts across their hushed chatter with a thunderous tone, eyes flashing.

“This is not the place to be having this discussion,” he hisses, with a pointed look at the ogling crowd of Durmstrang and Beuxbatons first years observing their exchange. “Potter is evidently in shock from his ordeal, and it is to _me_ to escort him to the castle. Granger, Weasley, I will not ask again. Return to your seats-”

“But Sir-” Ron protests.

“ _Return to your seats_ ,” Riddle says, cutting. “Or I’ll have no reservations about sending you back myself.”

He brushes his fingers over the head of his wand, as though to illustrate his point.

Hermione frowns, then –

Frowns, because it is laughable that he thinks for a moment that Harry will be better off without them with him.

Frowns, because Riddle is snapping at them.

 Frowns, because he is _pale,_ alarmingly so; looks rattled, even.

Frowns, because this is not Tom; not the gentle man who had kneeled by her and believed her when she told him about Karkaroff and Snape.

She opens her mouth, to say so.

Ron is faster.

“Course,” he says, hasty, not looking at her. “Yeah. C’mon, ‘Mione.”

“What?” Hermione says, exasperated.

Ron gives her a strange look, as though he is trying to tell her something, but the effect of the strain on his forehead is merely that he appears to be mildly constipated.

“Wonderful.” Riddle’s smile is very thin. “If you’ll excuse us.”

His strides are long and brisk as he marches Harry onward, towards the castle, even as Harry casts a look over his shoulder at them, eyes wide.

Hermione whirls on Ron the instant she is positive that Riddle won’t hear her.

“I can’t _believe_ you,” she says heatedly. “You _saw_ Harry, and you heard what he said about the graveyard – something horrible has obviously happened, and you want to just- just sit here like everybody else?”

“You know me,” Ron says bitingly before rolling his eyes, and he draws her in, hissing in her ear. “ _Obviously_ we’re going to follow them. Honestly, Hermione. For the smartest person I know you’re not all that bright sometimes.”

Hermione flushes, then, eyes widening.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Ron says thickly. “Besides, you heard Harry. We’ve got to find Dumbledore.”

Hermione tenses, shakes her head.

“Harry doesn’t know what we know,” she says urgently. “About Dumbledore knowing about Snape.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ron says. “But – well, it’s Dumbledore, isn’t it? Maybe Snape’s a piece of shit, and Karkaroff, but he _loves_ Harry. Borderline nepotism, it is. If he sees Harry like this, no way is he taking _Snape’s_ side.”

Hermione hesitates.

“It’s too risky, Ron.”

Ron’s fingers tug at his hair in agitation.

“I know,” he admits. “Look – you go.”

Hermione blinks.

“What?”

“After Harry,” Ron clarifies. “Riddle likes you better, anyway, so he won’t be as mad when you show up. I’ll find Dumbledore. If I find him taking tea with Snape in his office, I won’t tell him anything.”

She pauses, surveys him.

Something in her chest tells her that Ron is right; that Professor Dumbledore could never truly tolerate anyone who would harm his students, and least of all, Harry.

But she is ever and always cautious about listening to what her chest tells her.

“I don’t _know_ , Ronald-”

“Well I do,” Ron says, impatient. “I don’t know much, ‘Mione, but,” he hesitates. “Like you said. You _saw_ Harry. He needs you.”

He jerks his head toward the great castle that Harry and Riddle have disappeared into, now.

Hermione exhales, slow, and the air is too sweet on her tongue.

Closing her eyes, she nods.

“I’ll find him.”

Ron gives her a lopsided sort of smile, evanescent.

They walk together to the castle, hasty, silent.

After that, they walk alone.

* * *

 

Harry Potter was not supposed to come _back_.

Tom had not considered it a remote possibility at all, truth be told, and he wasted a rather embarrassing amount of seconds simply blinking at the spectacle unfurling in the centre of the pitch at the bottom of the hill – the boy in red with the lightning scar, arm bleeding and Triwizard Cup shimmering in his hands.

It was perplexing, naturally.

Infuriating.

Because Tom did every fucking thing they had planned, everything his scorned Lord had asked.

_I need you to find Harry Potter. Then, I need you to send him to me._

He had done it; delivered the boy to him on a silver platter, and still, _still_ , Potter escaped unmarked, save for the deep cut carved into his arm.

Tom purses his lips.

At least, surely, this must mean that the ritual was done.

At least this must mean that Lord Voldemort had some form, now, something fitting for a Dark Lord.

But Harry Potter was not supposed to come back, and Tom sinks his nails into his palms, because how _incompetent_ must his sorry excuse for a Master be, to let a sixteen year old boy escape him, even after the ritual was done.

How incompetent, that the same boy who was his ruin before he could speak, the same boy who turned him to dust with his mere _touch_ when he was eleven, had bested him fucking _again_ -

He grips Harry by the shoulder, roughly, now.  


He’s not said a thing; not yet.

He’s been rather rudely forced, by circumstance, to improvise, and he’s no idea how much the boy knows.

About who he is.

About how Harry came to be in that graveyard.

More pressingly, he has no bloody idea what he is supposed to do about the very much, very inconveniently, _alive_ Harry Potter who’s digging in his heels and moaning something about the Hufflepuff boy he’s become so bewilderingly fond of.

With a grunt, Tom pushes open the door to his usual classroom, dropping Harry unceremoniously onto his desk and closing the door with a flick of his wrist.

The Triwizard Cup clatters beside him as Harry’s fingers loosen around it.  

“It was a portkey,” Harry rasps through a throat raw from screaming. “The Cup was a _portkey_.”

Tom draws in a breath, surveys the boy.

He is in a dreadful state, at least.

Crying, which Tom doesn’t care for at all, and he is simply covered in dirt, face streaked with it. His shirt is torn where the knife sliced through, and his arm is steadily dripping blood.

When Tom closes his eyes, he can feel the residue of _crucio,_ lingering like a foul smell on his body.

“And what was it like?” he says calmly.

Harry hesitates.

“Like? What do you-”

“What was he like? The Dark Lord,” Tom repeats, curiosity rather getting the better of him.

Did he look like _him_ , now?

Was he young, like him, plain?

Did he look weak, or did he look strong?

Did he look human?

Harry only shakes his head, impatient.

“I dunno- I- Sir, I- he wasn’t really anything, at first, but then he took my blood, and a bone, and Pettigrew was there, Peter Pettigrew, and Sir, he’s back, _he’s back_ , and he’s got _Cedric_ , and we need to-”

“Cedric Diggory?” Tom says, eyes narrow. “However did that transpire?”

“We found the Cup at the same time,” Harry says dully.

Of course, the Cup would only have responded to Harry’s touch, not Cedric Diggory’s.  

“And the boy decided he’d come along for the ride?” Tom says dryly.

Harry’s mouth is trembling when he shakes his head.

“I decided,” he croaks. “I wanted- I thought- we’d _won_ , we were going to both win, together.”

Of course he bloody well did.

After the bleeding-heart fiasco that was Potter's performance in the Second Task, Tom shouldn’t be surprised that the boy would insist on sharing the victory the Cup conferred.

How miserable he must feel, how _guilty_ , to know that in earnest, he had simply insisted upon the boy accompanying him to his execution. 

Insisted that Cedric Diggory die, too. 

Still, an idealistic adolescent Hufflepuff should not have thrown a wrench in Lord Voldemort’s operation.

An idealistic adolescent Hufflepuff should have been a fucking _welcome gift_ , a spare to make an example of, to entertain the Death Eaters.  

Irritation prickles at his chest, and Tom is _fuming_ , because Merlin, he is going to have it _out_ with Voldemort for this, and he had better have a fucking good excuse for failing over again with his spectacularly _insufficient_ -

Harry Potter is staring at Tom, now.

Staring, and there is some edge to it that makes him want to curse under his breath.

_Suspicion._

“I don’t,” he says, slow. “Professor, I don’t understand.”

Tom holds out his palms facing upward, eyebrows raised, an invitation to elaborate upon exactly what it is that Harry doesn’t understand.

The boy’s face is white and open when he wets his lips and confirms Tom’s apprehensions.

 “You see, I don’t think I said anything about the Dark Lord, Professor.”

Tom simply blinks, carefully crafting his expression into one that is utterly blank, the picture of innocence.

“Said anything? You were all but shouting it at the Pitch,” he says smoothly. “You must be confused, Potter. Naturally. You've clearly endured a great deal.”

Harry hesitates, of course, because it could well be true, and his face relaxes for a moment.

For a moment.

Then, he frowns.  

“But you’re not surprised,” he says, voice too high, now. “That the Cup was a portkey. You’re not surprised.”

Tom closes his eyes, sighs.

If he had Granger’s mind, he’d have figured it all out by now.

Still, Harry has stumbled upon too much for it to be useful for Tom to continue to deny it, play the part of the dutiful Professor.

“No,” he says, finally, dropping any semblance of _surprise,_ of _concern,_ from his voice. “I’m not.”

Harry shifts where he sits, perched at the edge of the desk, uneasy, and of course, he ought to be.

Because Tom is stronger than him, laughably so.

Because Tom is, in some sense, the very man he has fled from, the very man who has him quivering, now.

Tom is the reason he is famous, the reason he is orphaned, the reason he had to be at that graveyard in Little Hangleton, tonight.

“You,” Harry says, slowly, and Tom is only waiting, lip quirked up and eyebrows drawn in, as he puts the pieces together. “You put the Cup in the maze, this morning.”

“Yes,” Tom says plainly.

“You said- you told Hermione you would check,” Harry hesitates. “For- for Dark Magic. Because she told you about-”

“Yes.”

Harry shakes his head, perplexed.

Then,

“You,” he breathes, and oh, it is dawning on him now, and it is bewitching, it is _lumos,_ the very moment, the cluster of seconds, wherein light floods the darkness, saturates it. “You meant for it to happen. But-”

“But,” Tom says, delicate. “ _Why_? Is that it, Potter? Because you can’t imagine, can you? No, you’re not nearly that clever.”

He steps toward him, now, even as Harry draws himself to his feet, cautious.

“Sir,” he says, and he is panicking, now, face contorted into a most displeasing expression, and he does not _understand,_ and he is reaching for his wand-

Tom almost snorts.

He tilts his head, studies the boy: his wonky glasses half-fogged, the slight limp that accents his steps, arm an unsanitary mess of blood, still.

“Do you think that you can best me, Harry?”

The boy _flinches_ at that, eyes narrowing.

“You tell me,” Harry says, rather oddly, and Tom frowns.

Drawing his own wand, he trains it on Potter’s, some incessant curiosity imploring him to do it.

“ _Priori Incantatem_ ,” he murmurs.

The boy’s wand stirs in response to his spell, and all at once, there is a flash of green, eerie, ugly.

It is _familiar_ , its very shape, its smell-

Tom draws in a breath.

He is –

Impressed, he supposes.

Surprised, and somewhat pleasantly so.

“The Killing Curse,” he breathes. “Well, Potter,” he leers at the boy, _stares,_ because thank god, he has finally seen fit to become _interesting, “_ look who rose to the occasion. Who knew you were paying attention in class after all.”

“He was an animal,” Harry says hoarsely. “An animal- like the _gryphon_ , and-”

And there was only one way to fight an animal like a _gryphon_.

“Ah,” Tom says. “Quite. Yes. _Excellent_.”

He is circling the boy, now, thinking, thinking _hard_ -

“Why?” Harry says suddenly. “Why would you teach me that if – if-”

The boy is rambling, unable, more’s the pity, to arrange his thoughts better so as to figure it out properly without Tom having to bother with an explanation, and Tom is s _ighing_ when the door bursts open and somebody is hurtling inside, wand at the ready and trained solely on _him._

Somebody with a chaotic head of hair and a fierce scowl to match.

Tom stops, now, and he does not know what to say, does not know what he ought to, what he wants to.

He feels –

_Caught._

Guilty, which is ridiculous, never-mind that, in her mind, he supposes he simply is.  

“Get away from Harry,” Hermione says, and her lip is positively trembling, but her voice is most decidedly not. “ _Now_.”

* * *

 

When Tom does not move, she says it again, even as Harry says her name, surprised, _concerned._

“Get _away_ from him,” she snaps, and she is holding her wand with both hands, clutching at it as though it is her lifeline- it, and not him.

He supposes she will never see _him_ in that way again.

“Hermione,” he says, and his voice is smooth, soothing, he knows it is, because he has made it so, but it is futile, because she is _glowering_ at him, still.

It’s as though he’s killed _her_ parents and not Harry’s – or worse.

As though he’s taken her favourite book and torn it to pieces, before she can read it for a second time, commit it to memory.

As though he’d done it in front of her.  

Yes, that is the way she is looking at him now.

That is the way she is _thinking_ of him now.

He is not trying to read her mind, he really isn’t.

Still, it is rather hard to ignore when it is _shouting,_ screaming at him, calling him every foul name he knows and then some, and what is _worse_ \- calling him _out,_ for everything, and she is not wrong.

There is a hard lump forming in his throat.

It is rather painful.

“ _Don’t_ ,” she says, “Don’t you dare call me that, you- _you-_ ”

She had been listening at the fucking door, though for how long, he’s no clue, and Tom wants to kick himself.

Merlin, wasn’t he only last night taking the piss out of Karkaroff and Snape for failing to cast _muffiato_ when they were having their own rather private conversation in that broom cupboard?

How _he_ had managed to neglect to do so was beyond foolish.

“Hermione,” he says again, louder, this time. “I need you to shut your mouth _and_ the door, can you do that?”

“ _Why_?” she says, seething. “Why should I do anything you ask me to do?”

With a sigh, he beckons the door with his finger, sends it slamming closed behind her, throws a _muffiato_ behind it for good measure.

Hermione shoots a reproachful look at it over her shoulder, as though it had obeyed him on purpose to spite her.

“Because,” he says pointedly, “if you don’t I might have to kill your friend, and I don’t think you would like that very much.”

Harry starts at that.

“ _Kill my friend?_ ” Hermione says, flabbergasted, enraged.

He could pretend he didn’t say it.

He could put on the performance of his life, convince them that they have misunderstood, sell them some story about Karkaroff putting Krum up to it, bewitched as Potter now surely knew he had been.

But she is a _storm_ in front of him, unruly and chaotic and unpredictable, and he does not feel at all like lying to her now.

“Good, I see you heard me,” he says shortly.

And Potter looks _astonished_ , brow furrowed, still, puzzled, still.

But _she_ understands.

She _understands_ , the way he thought she would, had bloody well hoped she would.

Now, he only feels numb.

“We were wrong,” she swallows, eyes wide as they fix on him, and _furious_ , naturally. “ _I_ was wrong, about Karkaroff, wasn’t I? He isn’t working for You Know Who, not anymore. He wasn’t lying at his trial. But you- you _are_. _You_ put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire.”

_Finally._

Harry draws in a breath, following at last- he always does, when Hermione’s here to point it all out for him.

Tom purses his lips as she continues, words spilling faster by the moment from her lips as it comes to her, too fucking late.

“It’s why you were helping us, isn’t it? You had to make sure that Harry made it to the third task. You had to make sure he won it, because he had to get to the Cup first. Because the Cup was a _portkey_ , and – Merlin, you knew. This whole time, you knew that it would be. You’re not even a real Professor, are you? It’s why you’re _here_ to begin with.”

“Very good, Hermione,” he says tiredly. “A tad too late, I’m afraid, but very good, all the same.”

If looks had the power to kill, Tom supposes Hermione would have sent him to his grave a thousand times over by now.

Her teeth are grit so hard together, jaw locked so firm, it looks _painful._  

“You’re a fraud,” she says tightly, vexed, agitated, as he has ever seen her. “You- you’re not a real Professor, and I wasted _hours_ trying to write an essay you would dignify with more than one word in response and I listened to _you_ and you’re not even a real teacher-”

“ _That’s_ what bothers you?” he lifts an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “ _That_?”

She is utterly irascible, now, and the scowl her face contorts into at that is almost glorious.

“Who _are_ you?” she spits. “Is your name really Tom Riddle? Was that a lie, as well? Did You Know Who choose it?”

She is crying.

Close to it, anyway, unless her eyes have taken to gleaming rather alarmingly between this morning and now.

It is his fault, this time.

Of course, he supposes, it had been his fault last night, too, though he had told himself that it wasn’t, and it was easy enough to believe it.

It had been Karkaroff, then.

He had comforted her, then, and she had _liked_ it, he was positive.

He supposes she would hardly like it half as much now.

“Tom Riddle,” Harry says, a strange look about him. “That name- _fuck_.”

“Language, Potter,” Tom says, habit, and nothing more.

The boy glowers at him before he clears his throat, speaks.

“In the graveyard – there was a man called Tom Riddle. A dead man, I mean. A grave. Voldemort,” he chokes. “Voldemort said it was his _father_ , ‘Mione.”

Hermione turns ashen, now, everything about her sour, broken.

Tom actually snorts, now.

“You think I am Lord Voldemort’s _father_?” he grins. It is not a kind one. “You think it is _possible_ that I could ever be anything like  _him_ \- that I could be that sorry _Muggle_ thing-”

Hermione flinches.

“Who _are_ you?” she repeats, and her voice breaks on the last word, crumbling in her mouth.

God, he has her in pieces, and he _feels-_

But it does not matter.

“I don’t blame you, you know,” he says abruptly. “For not figuring it out. It is beyond even you, to understand.”

“Understand,” Hermione shakes her head bitterly. “Understand what, _Tom_?”

She is using his name.

She is using his name, and he asked her to, last night, this morning, and it had sounded something _enchanting,_ then, coming from her mouth.

Now, it is an _insult_ , something she spits at him like an accusation.

Of course, it is one.

His lip curls unpleasantly.

“Understand,” he says curtly, “that Lord Voldemort _is_ my past, present, and future.”

And he is utterly _done_ , now.

Done with _Professor Riddle._

Done with hiding _him,_ the reason that he _matters,_ the reason he is important.

The reason Hermione Granger had done _well_ to listen to him, the reason he was the best fucking Professor Hogwarts had ever seen, ever would see again.

With a harsh jerk, his wand is in the air, and he turns, sketches the letters into the air with _flames_ and embers, hasty, angry, as he had done, once, with mere ink in the pages of his diary by the dungeon fireplace, and when he is finished, they are burning, blunt, honest.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.

They are watching, transfixed, eyebrows furrowed, mouths partially open, as they take it in.

Of course, this is nothing new to them, not yet, save perhaps for his middle name.

At the sharp turn of his wrist, the letters _move,_ now, finding their proper place in the sentence, fashioning themselves into a new name, a better one, the _real_ one, and he steps back, does not turn around, not yet, because he does not quite know what they will look like, now that they have seen it.

Now that they know.

Does not know how she will look at _him_ , now.

Because she _knows_.

He has told her, given her his name on a silver platter, given her the fucking _truth_ , and she won’t say thank you, and he doesn’t expect her to, so he doesn't know  _why_ he is so reluctant to look at her- 

It occurs to him that this is hardly necessary.

It occurs to him that he will come to regret being so awfully candid with the boy who wants him dead and his clever friend.

It does him no good to wonder now.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT is setting the air alight, its faint crackling the only sound punctuating the silence that has engulfed them.

* * *

 

He is –

And she is _incensed_.

Because she had been so terribly eager to earn his approval, to have _him_ tell her that she was clever, to have _him_ give her full marks on her essays, _him_ tell her that her duelling technique is second to none.

She is _sick._

Because she had liked him, _too much_ , if she was being quite honest with herself, and it was futile not to be, now.

 _Liked_ when she found herself wrapped in conversation with him about the Tournament, theories of dark magic as they arose in the classroom.

 _Liked_ the way that his eyes would seem to gleam when he agreed with her, or disagreed, even, presented another view, because that was even better- that meant that they would go back and forth, and she so adored that even more; that feeling that he was _listening_ to what she was saying. That feeling that he understood it, better, even, then she did.

She is _disgusted._

Because she _liked_ the sound of his voice, even now. How it is clear and calm and always _certain_ , and  that made her feel clear and calm and certain, too.

That made her _trust_ him.

And Merlin, she had.

Trusted him, that is.

Not with everything, no; she had always thought he behaved rather oddly about Viktor, always thought that he behaved rather oddly about her.

She trusted him conditionally, narrowly.

Only with what mattered.

Only with _Harry._

Only Harry, and she cannot _breathe,_ cannot _speak_ because he is-

It isn’t possible.

It shouldn’t be.

But it is burnt clear and plain into the air in front of her, and when he looks at her now, there is a darkness to him, an edge to the set of his jaw, the way he lets his lids hood over his eyes.

He is –

“ _You_ ,” Harry says, and his voice echoes Hermione’s incredulous heart. “But that’s not- but I _saw_ him, I fought him-”

“You did,” Tom Riddle – _Voldemort_ – says, and he does it too easily, casually, as though he hasn’t just torn her world to pieces, shattered its very foundations and left her reeling in the chaos of the debris.

“I don’t understand,” she says, and she loathes how _timid_ she knows she sounds.

She thinks he almost looks disappointed, then.

Him, disappointed in her, and she wants to _laugh_ but it seems too much work, to laugh and to cry all at once, so she doesn’t, because _he is-_

_“Tom.”_

There is a voice, now.

One Hermione _knows,_ they all do.

And now, she thinks, she really might laugh.

Now, she thinks she might smile, if only a little, because Ron has come _through_ -

The door does not only swing open, this time, as her _Alohomora_ had done.

It is blown to _shreds_ in the fraction of a moment, and the sound of it has Hermione falling to her knees, clutching her ears.

Professor Dumbledore is standing in the frame the door had occupied before its unceremonious destruction, Ron standing behind him at his shoulder looking rather ill indeed.

The Headmaster looks _tired_ , circles etched deep under his eyes, and terribly dark.

He is wearing robes of deep red that make Hermione glance down at the deep red seeping, still, from Harry’s hurt arm.

He is _wrathful,_ and his eyes, stern, cool, under his half-moon spectacles, are fixed on Tom Riddle.

“It was foolish of you to come to Hogwarts, Tom,” he says, voice calm, regulated, even as his eyes are not. “The Aurors are on their way.”

Hermione frowns, shoots a bewildered look at Harry.

Because Dumbledore _knows,_ and that does not make sense –

Tom Riddle is frozen still for a moment before his lips curl. 

“So sorry to miss them, Headmaster,” he says, cold, uneven. “Do give them my regards.”

There is a flash of bold _green,_ the Killing Curse, hurtling across the room toward Professor Dumbledore at a velocity that has Hermione _gasping,_ reaching for her own wand, but Dumbledore deflects it, easy, as though it is _nothing-_  

Of course, that was not the point.

Tom Riddle had not truly intended for the spell to land; that would be folly, and he knew it.

He meant only to buy himself time.

A number of seconds, and he had only needed less than he got.

He did not need _magic_ to grab Harry rough by the wrist, to clamp the fingers of his free hand firm around the blue Cup glinting on the desk beside him.

He murmurs something, hasty, under his breath, a _spell,_ now, and she knows what he is doing, feels it before she thinks it, the sinking of her heart.

It had been a _portkey,_ she had heard Harry say, and now, it is, again, he has made it so.

“ _Harry,”_ she screams, but he does not look at her.

Hermione does not need magic to do what she does next.

Which is a world of _relief,_ because she does not think about it, either.

She only runs, desperate, to her friend, throws herself at the floor beneath him.

Even as the classroom begins to tilt and turn, dissolve into nothing as they tear through space to _somewhere else_ , Hermione latches on to Harry’s leg.

She does not let go.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! 
> 
> Thank you so much for your engagement with the last chapter! I love all the expressions of concern for Cedric :').  
> At this point, I want to clarify that while his prospects sure are grim as hell, Cedric is not necessarily dead! 
> 
> Thank you, too, for those of you who weighed in on the other two fic ideas I raised in the last chapter note - at this stage, I would love to write the political one at some stage! 
> 
> I'd really love to hear what you think of this chapter! We're finally back in the present with Tom and Hermione again, although their interactions this time are decidedly less wholesome than the one in his quarters earlier, more's the pity. Don't worry, Hermione is nowhere near done confronting Tom, and he is nowhere near done explaining himself (quite literally) to them - that will all pick up immediately in the next chapter! 
> 
> I also just want to flag that as of tomorrow, my life gets a whole lot more hectic than it has been lately, so apologies in advance -the updates are probably going to be a little more irregular from then onward, though of course, I will still try to get them out reasonably quickly :). 
> 
> Ooh, and I wanted to mention that my new icon was made by the brilliant Ariel Riddle and you should all check out her edits on Tumblr if you get the chance!


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

 

The air is _sour_ in this place.

Like an apple that has rotten to its core, milk left out for too long on a summer afternoon.

Hermione wrinkles her nose.

The mere practice of breathing is distinctly unappealing, here – wherever in Merlin’s name it is that _here_ may be.

Hermione blinks, and, heaving herself up from the cold floor she has crashed onto with battered elbows, casts her eyes about, gathering as much information as she is able and putting aside, for the moment, the fact that her heart is hammering fervently against her chest as though it means to escape it entirely.

She is in a house.

A room in one, anyway.

A wide, cold room with wooden floorboards littered with holes, walls flimsy and hastily painted white in places.

There is a leather sofa that appears to have seen its best days a number of decades earlier in the far corner, rotting into the floor.

It is empty, save for herself, Harry, sprawled across the ground at her side, and the man who has brought them there.

The man who has the _audacity_ to be scowling at her rather ferociously at the minute.

“Granger,” he barks. “Are you out of your precious little _mind_?”

Hermione finds her feet, cheeks red hot as her temper.

She is still holding her wand.

Thank Merlin, she is still holding her wand.

Her fingers twitch at its head.

“ _Expelliarmus.”_

She spits the word from her mouth at once as though she will choke on it if she doesn’t.

Tom Riddle does not stop her.

His wand, perfect, polished, falls to the ground with a delicate clatter the moment her magic meets it, and he does not _stop her,_ and it is infuriating.

Because he could have, of course.

He is better at fighting than her, she would be naïve to believe otherwise.

Faster, too, and certainly better practiced.

He is _He Who Must Not Be Named,_ and that makes him more powerful than her altogether, more powerful than most _anyone_ , save, perhaps, for the Headmaster he sent a Killing Curse after only moments ago, as though it was easy.

As though it was nothing.

To him, she supposes, it was.

He deals entirely in the realm of the Unforgiveable, _lives_ there, is born of it.

He is You Know Who, and it does not make sense, but it is _true,_ of that she is certain.  

True, because she wants for it ever so badly not to be.

He is You Know Who, and so he _could have stopped her,_ and he didn’t.

Which means he didn’t want to.

Merlin, he didn’t need to.

He’s as powerful without his wand as he is with it, he’s been arrogant about that quite enough in class.

She _snaps_.

“What was _that_?” she points an accusing finger at the wand on the floor. “Why did you let me do that? A consolation prize, is that it? Ten points to Gryffindor?”

 She sniffs, perfectly aware of the contempt that is positively saturating her tone and not caring to conceal it.

“Are you patronising me? Because it isn’t funny.”

Tom – Voldemort – grits his teeth.

 “Hermione,” Harry mumbles, pulling himself uneasily to his feet.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Tom, _god, is his name even Tom?,_ says tightly. “Fuck, you really are a _stupid_ Gryffindor.”

_Fuck._

So the Dark Lord has a vulgar mouth, now.  

Hermione laughs once without a great deal of humour.

Her hands find her hips, fingers digging in with painful force.

“ _I_ shouldn’t be here?” she says, incredulous. “You _unbelievable_ -”

“No, you shouldn’t,” he snaps, louder, now, abrupt, and he steps toward her, _touches_ her, like he has done before too many damned times.

As he had done this morning, as she had _wanted -_

She flinches, scrambles away from him before her skin begins to sing under his fingers, and when she meets his eyes, next, she is _struck_ by them.

The way the light that is there, always, glinting at her like some intoxicating secret that he was half-minded to share with her, is gone.

The way it is dead.

“You really don’t have the _time_ to argue with me, Hermione, so for once in your life, do as you’re fucking told and run along back to Hogwarts.”

He jerks his head, angry, imploring, in the approximate direction of the troublesome Cup that brought them here in a hurricane of his own design.

An order.

_Run along back._

Hermione stares at it, distant, and she can feel Harry’s eyes on her, now, flitting from her face to Tom Riddle’s.

The dark wizard is not cursing her.

Evidently, she is not quite worth the trouble.

You’re not trying to kill me,” she says blankly. “Does only Professor Dumbledore get that particular honour?”

He flinches as though she has stung him, and she cannot imagine why her scorn would touch him in the slightest, but the sight of it incites the most peculiar blend of satisfaction and guilt of some sort or another, which is perfectly preposterous, of course.

The idea that she has offended his sensibilities is laughable.

The idea that she ought to feel _bad_ for it, to be remotely contrite-

“You can’t be here,” he says, agitated, doing a rather excellent job of blatantly ignoring her once more. “If you don’t understand that it is in your best interests to do as I say-”

Hermione sticks her chin up, now, and she is _fuming_.

“ _My_ best interests?” she says fiercely. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you should find the very concept of _loyalty,_ of- of caring about another person, abhorrent. Weak, even.”

He is looking at her, now, blinking, as though she has taken him by surprise, somehow.

His gaze feels heavy, and her eyes are too hot, are prickling _too much_ , and she wishes he would stop, because she _can’t._

Stop, that is.

The words are here, now, and they will not abide being merely swallowed.

She would only choke on them.

“But you’re not a real Professor. You _lied_ , every day you lied to us, and – and so I don’t _care_ if you think I’m abhorrent. I don’t care if you think I’m weak, or a stupid Gryffindor. You’re _him,_ and you are a murderer, and a monster, and the world was a great deal better when you were gone.”

He flinches sharply, drops his eyes from hers before she can read them, not that she cares what emotion, or lack thereof, she might find there.

She swallows, hard, and she is terribly sure that she is crying, now.

 “So if you really think that it is in my best interests to just, to just _roll over_ and let you kill my best friend then I think it’s _your_ intelligence that’s up for questioning and not mine, you colossal _arse_.”

She is panting when she finishes, body coiled taut with the frustrating realisation that it is not _enough,_ that she has not hurt him enough, has not shown him quite enough of the senseless storm that he has incited in her chest, the _thunder_.

She is panting, and she is beside herself, because, Merlin, she called him a bloody _arse,_ and was that really the best that she could do?

Because Hermione has read dictionaries, thesauruses, too, has done so since she was little and bored out of her mind waiting for her parents in the children’s play room at their practice, and so she _knows_ words, knew them, even then, that are so much worse than _arse_ , that would hurt more, and she wants so badly to hurt him, now.

She knows words that fit him better, words that are worthy of the things he has done, the lies he has woven to entice them.

Words that her mother would chastise her for knowing at all, even now, and she settled for _arse?_

She waits, now.

Waits, because he is You Know Who.

Because he rather insists upon being called a Dark _Lord,_ fashioned the ridiculous moniker for himself, a bloody anagram, and he most probably is not accustomed to being spoken to in the way she has done, now.

Because he must be furious.

Must be amused.

Must bloody well be _something_.

But Tom Riddle does not say a damn thing.

Does not say a thing, and his eyes are too wide and she does not know how, why, they are beautiful, still, and it is perfectly cruel.

Cruel, that something in her chest _tugs_ ever so gently at the look on his face, the way that his mouth is open, only slightly, as though he wants to speak but can’t think where to start, face contorted as though he is in pain, wand still on the floor beside him.

As though _he_ is in pain.

“Hermione.”

It is Harry, heavy on the floorboards as he shifts himself toward her, dragging one leg after him.  

He reaches out with his hand, as Riddle had done, but this time, Hermione takes it gladly, squeezes his fingers with her own, and she does not at all care that they are stained with blood that is not quite done drying.

Tom Riddle’s hands only _look_ clean, after all.

“Take it,” Harry says, voice small, hasty. “He wants me, not you. Hermione, please. He’s got Cedric. Please.”

 _Please don’t let him take you, too_.

She hears it as clearly as if he had said it aloud, and not merely with a desperate look.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she sets her jaw.

At her shoulder, Tom Riddle swears colourfully.

Hermione whirls on him, heated.

“I’m ever so sorry, is my presence an inconvenience to you, _Professor_?”

Harry swallows, suddenly awfully pale.

“Mione,” he says hoarsely. “He’s taken us to _him_. You need to go.”

“Him?” Hermione is perplexed. “You Know Who? I thought we’d establish precisely who that is.”

Tom Riddle’s lip twitches.

“Not precisely, Hermione,” he says, voice terribly low, and she shudders, _thinks_ -

A sound interrupts her.

A fairly innocent one, as sounds go.

The creak of a door being nudged open.

Innocent, she supposes, subject to the identity of the person on the other side.  

Tom Riddle is pale, now, frightfully so.

He does not reach for his wand, though his wrist is brandished as though he holds it there, nonetheless.

 “Get behind me,” he says, flat, commanding.

Hermione hesitates.

Because it is a warning, yes, but something else, too.

Something more.

A promise – protection, of all preposterous things.

He wants her to _trust_ him, to leave this- whatever on earth this is to become-  to _him_.

She did that once, this morning.

She did that once, and she thinks she will never forgive herself for that particular lapse in judgment.

She does not move, even when the door caves in.

She is still holding Harry’s hand when it does.

* * *

 

The monster in the doorframe is formidable.

Formidable, and just close enough to human to be truly disconcerting, jarringly wrong, somehow.

It is terribly tall, so much so that it looks distinctly out of place by the door, though of course, the grey skin and eyes to match have that effect all on their own.

Its robes of pitch black seem to float, eerie in its wake, mere slits contracting where its nose ought to be, teeth greying and clenched, and body comprised of jarring bones, a dark ring, split down the middle, gleaming on a long finger– Hermione is _transfixed._

Curious, despite herself.

She is also petrified.

Because this, _this_ , is something unmentionable.

This, she can _feel_.

It is palpable, putrid in the air it inhales and exhales, this terribly _bitterness_ , and so she holds her breath.

Holds it, because she does not want to breathe it in.

Holds it, because she cannot quite remember how to do it as normal, now, anyway.

It is too cold, and her heart is too _loud_ in her chest.

“ _Potter_.”

The monster’s gaze lands on Harry, and she decides that she rather takes issue with the way that it says his name, the _hunger_ that weighs on the word.

She entwines her fingers more firmly with Harry’s, wants to stand in its way, shield Harry from the assault of its gaze, if only her legs can remember how to move beneath her hips, but before they recall it’s lip has curled up, menacing, and it is _in front_ of him, the remnants of dark shadow lingering after –

A wall of glittering white stops him a foot out from Harry, even as he swallows, stumbles backward.

A _protego,_ though not quite, not only.

This magic burns brighter, pushes harder – more than an ordinary shielding charm.

Of course, Hermione knows that they exist, and she had quite intended on asking Professor Riddle about it, before exams, before-

Nobody has uttered the enchantment.

Which means –

The monster scowls at Tom Riddle.

“What is the meaning of this?” it hisses, throwing an accusing look at the shield that had been Harry’s protection when Hermione was not fast enough.

Tom Riddle – Voldemort, Merlin, Hermione simply cannot abide the aliases she is forced, now, to contend with – lifts his brows pleasantly.

“I might ask you the same question,” he says conversationally – _conversationally_ , and Hermione only blinks, bewildered, because Dark Lord or not, to speak in such a manner to something that looks like _this_ is nonsensical.  

Somehow, everything about him right now is disconcertingly nonchalant; the way he is standing with his hands loose by his sides, one foot crossed elegantly over the other, jaw soft and shoulders much the same.

His wand is still on the floor.

“I see you’ve redecorated,” Riddle twists a finger in the air, gestures over the creature’s body.  He tilts his head, a frown bringing his brows low on his forehead. “I don’t quite know that I like it.”

The creature exhales too slowly for it not to be perfectly deliberate; _designed_ to hold them, waiting in the agony of quiet for a beat too long.

Hermione shivers.  

“You think you are clever,” it says harshly. “You must remember that you are nothing, boy.”

“So you keep telling me,” Riddle says, apparently unbothered at being deemed _‘nothing’_ by the monster before them, and Hermione does not understand.

Because if he, Tom Riddle, really is You Know Who, then what on earth is this animal, to be brave enough, terrible enough, to call him _‘nothing’_ and to not be dead yet?

“And yet _nothing_ is precisely what you’d have accomplished this evening, were it not for _me_.”

Riddle’s smile is pointed, narrow.

“This is how you see fit to address your Lord?” the creature says, voice soft, unwavering.

Hermione freezes.

_Your Lord._

But that was supposed to be Tom Riddle.

The Dark Lord, that is.

He had said-

He had shown them –

But he is a liar.

That is the only thing she knows about him for certain, now.

She flashes a glance at Harry, but his eyes are fixed on the foul creature.

“This is how I see fit to address the _joke_ of a man that allowed a schoolboy to escape him for the umpteenth time this evening, yes,” Riddle’s voice is ice cold.

“You bastard,” Harry growls, at Riddle, or at the monster poisoning the very air, Hermione does not know.

The both of them seem perfectly content to ignore him, in any case.

“Potter was supposed to come to me alone,” the creature growls, stalking the breadth of the shield like an animal in a cage, and Hermione thinks of the Horntail, how the chains that bound it had seemed so secure, once. How flimsy they had truly been. “Now that, if I recall, was entirely to you, _Tom_.”

Riddle flinches.

So that is his name.

Tom.

He had not, at least, lied to her about that.

When Hermione glances at him, now, she sees that he was not lying, either, when he told her that he did not care for his name ordinarily.

His brow is furrowed, cheeks pinched in, as though he has swallowed something decidedly unpleasant.

He does not look at her, though the way his jaw tightens lets her know that he is perfectly aware of her eyes on him, all the same.

He almost seems to _flush_ , which is perfectly ridiculous, and unimportant, but she notices, wonders-

“I’m terribly sorry if you found the addition of a seventeen year old Hufflepuff boy so cripplingly disruptive,” Riddle sneers. “I suppose I was mistaken in my utterly _unreasonable_ assumption that the _Dark Lord_ would be able to handle that particular curveball without requiring a week’s fucking advance notice.”

The polite façade that has masked him since the monster entered the room is slipping, now, and he is _angry,_ more so than Hermione has ever seen him.

“A Hufflepuff who was falling over himself to die for the Boy Who Lived,” the Dark Lord drawls, and he is turning _in_ on Riddle now, his own resentment contorting his rather reptilian features, and his breath seems to _react_ as it touches the _protego,_ send it hissing.

“ _Shut up,”_ Harry says, voice raw, still, from screaming, but still, it is strong. “Shut _up_ , don’t you dare talk about him, either of you, don’t you dare fucking talk about him-”

“Harry,” Hermione bursts, a warning, because Merlin, they are _looking_ at him now, at the both of them, and her wand arm is trembling and she does not know precisely how she intends on protecting Harry now that they’ve directed their attention to him in earnest.

Harry shakes her off, not looking at her.

“Ah,” the creature’s eyes glint. “How touching. Understandable that you should fear for your friend. Sensible, really.”

“What have you done with Cedric, Voldemort?” Harry says, words like thunder, each harsh and jarring as the next, but it is the last word that catches Hermione’s breath in her throat, confirms the theory that has feebly formed in her numb mind, and it _hits_ her, dull in her stomach, but she is _winded,_ cannot breathe.

_Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort_

But Tom Riddle had said –

But Merlin, he was _lying_ to them, because this, this _thing_ , is You Know Who, really.

And Tom Riddle is in earnest - what? A Death Eater?

Ambitious and fanciful and trying to make himself out to be so much more important than he is, and yes, that must be it, and that must be why the monster is calling him nothing, and he is _not_ Him, and she should not feel hopeful, should not feel relieved, but she does, she does, she does-

“You are foolish,” the Dark Lord murmurs. “To speak my name. You are foolish, too, to think you will ever see your pretty friend again.”

Something in Hermione collapses, now.

_Ever see -_

She _can_ see him.

She sees Cedric Diggory, in her head.

He is smiling, because he is always smiling, and it is quite interesting to behold, because it is _real_ , born of genuine feeling, and that is something of a rarity indeed.

His hair has fallen over his face, shaded his brows.

He is asking her if she is alright, at breakfast in the Great Hall.

_“I’ll see you and Harry at lunch, yeah?”_

She wants to be sick.

She wants to scream.

She does something decidedly more obtuse instead, and even as she does it, she is acutely aware of Tom Riddle, tense, deathly quiet, beside her.

“You haven’t answered Harry’s question.”

She does not look it – _him_ \- in the eye.

Not at first.

But it does her no good.

He is looking at _her_ the moment the words, clumsy, wavering, as they are, fall from her lips, and _Merlin,_ she can’t _think_ , because he is _looking_ at her, and when, out of fear or strength, she does not know, she looks back, she sees that it is bright, sharp.

Twisted, like nothing she has ever known, and wrong, terribly so.

It is like, she imagines, taking a glimpse under a Dementor’s Hood.

It is like precisely what it is: meeting the eyes of a murderer who is not, will never be, sorry.

It is searching for a person there: for some semblance of remorse, of empathy, and coming up blank.

“What,” she clears her throat, voice too high, and she hates how _flimsy_ it sounds. “What have you done with Cedric?”

Experimentally, she raises her wand, only an inch, so that it is trained over where she imagines the Dark Lord’s heart lives, presuming he has one, still.

His nostrils _flare_.

“And what,” he whispers, delicate, “is _this,_ Tom?”

His eyes drift, lazy, agonisingly slow, over Hermione's form from her head to her toes, lip twitching upward.

 “That’s not an answer,” she mumbles, and her own lips are awfully dry, cracked.

It occurs to her that she is not at all sure that she is ready to hear the answer that she is so incessantly demanding.

What, that Cedric Diggory is dead?

That he was murdered, gone in a second, torn from this world by an animal that will never understand what a terrible thing it has done, to rob the world of this boy?

What a heinous crime, to steal a heart and a mind like Cedric Diggory’s from it so unforgivably young?  

From _Harry_?

The Dark Lord’s eyes are _gleaming,_ now, and he steps toward her, though the same magic that still shields Harry extends toward her, prevents him from moving closer. It does little to soothe her anxious heart.

She feels about as secure as she supposes a Muggle might feel, suspended in the ocean and faced with a creature as sensational, as magnificent, as a shark, protected only by the fragile bars of the little cage that contains them and left simply praying that the predator will not test their strength.

“ _Tom.”_

“This,” Riddle says simply, “is a question, My Lord. I believe she wants you to answer it.”

Incredulous, _furious_ , the Dark Lord whirls on him.

“You will mind your tone with me. Or must I remind you where your loyalties lie?”  

Hermione _feels_ something now that has the fine hairs of her arms standing at attention, a power, crackling, tangible, slicing like a whip through the air.

“With myself, of course,” the ghost of a smile, however grim, touches Riddle’s face. “Ever and always. No, a reminder is hardly necessary. However,” he goes on, ever lightly, “you have failed. Once again, you allowed Potter to escape you, and that was rather an _inconvenience_ for me, My Lord. Albus Dumbledore, for example, is now entirely aware of exactly who Professor Riddle truly is, and has alerted Aurors. You can see how this rather complicates matters for me, I hope.”

You Know Who’s eyes narrow sharply.

“You allowed Albus Dumbledore to discover you?” he says, voice dripping with venom.

Tom Riddle lets out a bark of laughter.

“ _I_ allowed-? Merlin, listen to yourself,” he spits, disgust twisting his features. “I did my part. That oaf Pettigrew did his, and Crouch the same. But you,” he lifts a finger, waves it playfully, but the darkening of his eyes is entirely accusing. “ _You_ slipped.”

“I assure you,” You Know Who says curtly, “I will not slip again.”

He leans in.

“Give me Harry Potter, Tom. Give me Harry Potter, or I will be forced to make an example of you before my Death Eaters.”

“I think you mean _our_ Death Eaters,” Tom says breezily, “And oh, I’ll give you Harry Potter.”

Hermione feels the words like a slap across the face, sudden and ice cold and it really oughtn’t feel this way; _unexpected_ , as it does.

He has shown them who he is, now.

Shown them, already, at Hogwarts.

He is the man who put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire.

He is the man who manipulated them, used them, gained their trust –

_Hers._

He is the man who bested _her,_ enchanted _her_ with his wit and his magic and his eyes so that when the time came that she needed a promise made, a guardian for her best friend, it was he that she went running to.

He is the man bickering with the darkest wizard of all time over whose fault it is that Harry Potter is not dead yet.

“I’ll give you Harry Potter, just as soon as you give me what _I_ want.”

The Dark Lord surveys Tom, lips in a tight line.

Hermione is rather under the impression that whatever it is that Tom wants, the Dark wizard is all too aware of it already.

“You will give me the boy first,” he says finally, some edge to his voice that has Tom’s eyes narrowing.

“And lose my leverage?” he lifts his brows, incredulous. “You insist on calling me _nothing_ at the best of times, My Lord. I’m hardly going to forfeit _this_. You deliver on your promise, then you get your petty vengeance kicks. Do we understand each other?”

You Know Who pauses, now, _thinking,_ and oh, it is something, to watch him think.

Hermione thinks about her first visit to the zoo, how her parents had lost her in the maze of peculiar creatures.

How they had found her, transfixed, at the foot of a great python’s tank.

It was _focused_ , she remembers, even now, eyes fixed on a frozen mouse thrown unceremoniously into its vicinity, coils contracting and releasing as it edged nearer, _thinking, thinking._

“Give me the girl, too, and you have a deal,” he says at last, soft, and there is something too bright in his eyes now, even as Hermione’s heart _stops_.

_The girl too._

Hermione does not regret it.

Following them here.

She simply refuses to.

If this is the way that she goes –

If this is the moment, then she must only be glad.

If he kills her first, she will never have to see Harry go.

She will never have to know that world, how barren it will become the moment his heart ceases its beating.

“Like hell you will,” Harry says, adamant, and he casts an arm around her, pulls her in, though she is numb to the feeling.

“I thought the Diggory boy was overwhelming,” Tom says conversationally, having scarcely blinked at the notion that Hermione should be laid at the Dark Lord’s feet, traded like a hen at the market in exchange for whatever his wish may be. “I’m sure you’re capable of handing another adolescent student, My Lord. Besides, this one will be of no use to you.”

“No,” he says measuredly. “No use at all.”

Hermione flinches, shamefully indignant at being labelled useless by _him_.

She ought to be grateful he isn’t more invested in her, doesn’t have some particular, sick purpose in mind.

It is uncomfortable _enough_ that he sees fit to look at her, now, teeth flashing in the dull light of the room, as though he is perfectly aware of the fight she is having in the confines of her own mind on the subject.

“Yet if I do not receive her, I’m afraid you will never get what you’re asking for from me, Tom.”

Hermione closes her eyes.

Closes her eyes, because there is some part of her that is operating on mere instinct, still.

And it is irrational, of course, unacceptably so, daftly so.

But it is hopeful.

Hopeful, because it is utterly _convinced_ that Professor Riddle is not a construct of fiction, not entirely.

Convinced, still, that he will not harm Harry, despite every damning piece of evidence to the contrary, despite his own confession.

Convinced, still, that the man who knelt at her feet and made her promises in the night is real, somehow.

Convinced that he will not hurt _her_ , will not simply hand her over to You Know Who because he is asking.

She closes her eyes, because she does not want to see how catastrophically _wrong_ she is for it.

“No.”

* * *

 

Hermione’s eyes fly open, a frown already half-formed on her face, and she whirls to look at him, because Merlin, what on earth is he playing at, and who on earth _is_ he, and she knows that her surprise, her _relief,_ is marked clear as the sun on her face for him to read, and she doesn’t care-

“ _What_?” she whispers, even as the Dark Lord makes the same inquiry, albeit louder, angrier.

Tom Riddle only shrugs, not looking at her.

“I don’t think I will,” he says it simply, but there is some edge, hard, cold, underlying it in the shallows of his voice. “We had a deal, My Lord. An understanding. I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain. I won’t have you tacking on menial tasks indefinitely now. I’m not Pettigrew. You ought to remember that.”

Of course- _of course_ , it’s nothing to do with her.

Nothing to do with his conscience, only his pride, and she oughtn’t be surprised.

She had seen it, his _ego,_ how it had necessarily accompanied his bright mind like a glaring hamartia, even when he was only Professor Riddle, to her.

She wants to spit it back in his face, tell him that she doesn’t at all care for his help.

She wants to turn her wand on him once more, to show him all that she has practiced, learned, in preparation for the next class duel in hopes of earning his sick approval.

The Dark Lord lifts his nose, inhales sharply.

His forehead is set in a faint scowl.

Slowly, now, he bends, long fingers curling around some object on the ground beneath him –

Tom’s wand.

Hermione takes a staggered breath, her own wand twitching between her fingers, and she racks her whole mind for a spell, something, but it is ever so frustratingly numb at the minute.

She casts a hopeless look at Harry, but he is only gritting his teeth, glaring at the monster with every fibre of feeling in his body.

“You seem to have dropped this,” he says, soft, dangerously so, and a muscle twitches in Tom’s neck.

The Dark Lord is turning the wand over between his grey-veined fingers, absent-minded.

“You and I both know I hardly need it,” Tom murmurs, and it rather sounds like a threat.

A threat, only this time, it is directed at his Master.

Hermione’s head hurts.

“You have grown arrogant,” You Know Who muses. “You forget what you owe me.”

Agonisingly slow, he turns the wand over a final time before holding it out for the other man to take.

Tom snorts.

“And _you,”_ he says, “are withholding what you owe me now.”

In a swift, seamless move, he has taken it, and Hermione feels some giddying sense of relief, not for the first time in the past bizarre, terrible cluster of moments.

“You think that throwing a tantrum like a petulant child is going to change my mind?” the monster’s eyes flash. “I won’t hesitate, Tom.”

His gaze drops, now, deliberate, to his own hand, where the glittering ring, jagged and broken in places, is fixed upon his finger.

Some frantic brand of anger takes hold of Tom’s features now, moulds them in its image, and it is fierce and frightened in equal measure, and Hermione is _intrigued._

“You _swore_ ,” he hisses, low in his throat.

When the Dark Lord laughs, it is unnaturally high.

“And you _believed_ me,” he says, malice saturating his tone. “Which makes you the fool, and not I, boy.”

When Hermione looks at Tom Riddle now, he is fuming.

His body is taut, _trembling_ , though not, as hers is, in fear.

“ _You_.”

It is almost a growl.

“ _Enough_ ,” Harry shouts. “Whatever your stupid deal is – I don’t bloody well care if you take me. Tell me what you’ve done with Cedric. Tell me what you’ve done or-”

“Or?” the Dark Lord’s laughter is light, mocking.

“Answer,” Harry grits his teeth, “answer me. And I’ll – I’ll come over.”

He gestures at the shield, still strong, by some miracle, or, as Hermione suspects, some rare and possibly quite dark magic, still cutting a clean line between them.

You Know Who fixes his gaze on Harry, interest piqued, and that sick hunger, that _want_ , is terrible to behold.

Her stomach lurches.

“No you _won’t_ ,” she cuts in.

Harry turns to her, now, a pain, a fatigue, in his face that is too raw for Hermione to quite manage to meet his eyes.

“Hermione,” he says, _pleads_ , really, “this is my decision.”

She is –

Stunned.

Dazed, because this can hardly be real.

Because this means giving up, crossing the line and marching himself to his execution.

This means that Harry does not care if he lives or dies.

“Will you cease your ever so dramatic bickering,” Tom snaps. “Diggory isn’t dead.”

Hermione blinks, vision rather hazy.

Surely, she has heard wrong.

Surely, here, now, in this dreary place where they are quite probably going to be murdered by a serial killer, a psychotic animal with grey eyes and a broken ring, those words – _Diggory isn’t dead –_ are too wonderful, too delicious, to not be entirely imagined.

Besides, how should _he_ know, Tom, when he has been at Hogwarts with Hermione this entire time?

Unless –

_Legilimens._

But the Dark Lord would _know,_ if he was using it.

Would know, and would stop him, would never _allow_ it, and that made it as good as impossible.

He is lying, he must be lying.

Harry looks as frozen, as numb, as she feels.

“What?” it is scarcely a whisper, but he says it, and Hermione wants to kill Tom for the _hope_ that is there, now, alive and dancing in his eyes.

The Dark Lord has a taut jaw and a scowl on, trained solely on Tom.

“ _You dare-”_

“That’s the thing, isn’t it, My Lord?” Tom interrupts thickly. “I do dare. I will _always_ dare, until you give me a fucking reason not to.”

You Know Who growls, now, low and feral in his throat, and even Tom looks as unnerved by the sound of it.

“Then you give me no choice.”

There is a clear, polished sound, now, the tap of his fingers on the surface of the curious ring glinting on his free hand.

 Tom smiles, and there is no warmth to it, no light that touches his eyes as it has every damn time that Hermione has found herself thinking, uselessly, reluctantly, that he looks awfully handsome.

Now, he looks like what she supposes he really ought to look like, what he really _is_ :

A dangerous man, unhinged.

“Funny,” he says, though he does not strike Hermione as remotely entertained. “I was about to say precisely the same thing.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrow, wand turning between his fingers.

“What,” he says bitingly, “does that mean?”

“I’ll tell you,” Tom shrugs. “But first, I’m going to ask you do to something.”

“You,” You Know Who’s grin is feral, “you have the audacity to ask something of me?”

“Just one thing,” Tom says, throwing his palms up rather disarmingly, and Hermione frowns, wonders what on Earth he is playing at. “And it really is in your best interests to do it, I promise.”

He looks at her, now.

He looks at her, and the _light_ is there again, the dancing in his eyes, and it is pleading with her, begging for something that she cannot say, cannot imagine, _telling_ her something, something important, and she feels her lips part despite herself, her heart stammer –

“Catch.”

Somebody – Hermione is entirely unsure who, and really, she cannot rule out herself- draws in a sharp breath.

Then, a modest number of chaotic things seem to happen all at once.

_One._

The Triwizard Cup is caught in Tom’s fist, bright and beaming and too cheerful to belong here with them.

_Two._

The shield, brilliant and bright and rippling across the length of the room is crumbling, tearing itself apart in the air, and Hermione’s breath catches in her throat, paralysed by the fear that takes hold, as she realises what this means –

_Three._

Tom’s arm pulls back, and in the next moment the Cup is hurtling through the air, fierce and hard even as she gasps, and with a sickening crack, it makes contact squarely with You Know Who’s cheekbone, even as he jolts out of its course, and he shouts out, more in anger than in pain.

_Four._

He is standing close; closer, she thinks, than he has ever been, his leg grazing hers- and then he is touching her, too.

 _Grabbing_ , really, arm coiling tight around her middle, and his fingers are rough where they dig in at her waist, as though they intend to make themselves home there, settle in for a long while, and they are not asking _permission,_ and still, _still,_ she does not want him to let go.

_Five._

He has Harry, too,  wand-hand gripping into his shoulder sharply even as Harry snarls in protest.

_Six._

You Know Who is gone. In his place, there is darkness, a shadow streaking across the room, toward them, and it is bold and fast and unstopping and dark as Hermione has ever seen, and she can hear him, that voice, high and soft and powerful all at once, shouting-

_Seven._

Tom’s lips are at her ear, moving.

She thinks that he says something like ‘ _for god’s sake, keep a clear head_.’

She could be wrong.

His hand is warm at her waist, and it might feel pleasant, in another time and place.

_Eight._

He turns, shifts in his place, purposeful, and she knows _why_ , and as the room crumbles around them, the floor giving way beneath their feet and leaving them only spinning, clinging to each other, Hermione is _giddy_ with the hope of it, the apprehension, because Merlin, they could be safe, they could be going somewhere safe, but they could, too, be going someplace even more ghastly.

_Nine._

She searches for Harry’s hand in the chaotic nothing that surrounds them, even as it all turns upside down and over. 

She does not know who Tom Riddle is, but his hand is still at her side, her head flush against his chest, and it is still _warm_.

She wants to tear herself away from him; allow the magic to rip her to pieces when she does, scatter them across the world as they hurtle through it.

She wants to wake _up_ , have this all have been a dreadful nightmare to tell Harry and Ron about, and Ron will say something obtuse and admittedly amusing, and that will be that. 

She wants to see Dumbledore, demand that he explain everything that she cannot understand, try as she might. 

She wants -

She wants to go home.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! 
> 
> Thank you so much for being here and reading the chapter! 
> 
> So sorry it's been a while! I think I became acquainted with the pesky ol' 'writer's block' that everyone loathes so much this past week, so I found this chapter quite hard to write - I can only hope that it isn't super obvious upon reading it, but apologies if it is! 
> 
> While I haven't quite finished responding to all of the lovely and thoughtful comments you guys have left since the last update, I want to thank you so much for taking the time to write them - you really motivated me to get back into writing, and I truly appreciate it :). 
> 
> Next chapter, we're going to catch up with Ron and Dumbledore, as well as (hopefully) find out where Tom, Harry and Hermione have apparated to. 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear your thoughts and theories! 
> 
> (((I also just wanted to make a humble recommendation while we're at it: I highly (SO much emphasis on highly) recommend checking out Anne with an E on Netflix, which, I will admit, is partially to blame for the delayed update aha. It is a truly excellent series, based on Anne of Green Gables, with relatable and complicated characters, all brilliantly portrayed, and the cinematography is absolutely stunning. Also, the competitive, turbulent dynamic between two of the most compelling characters is so reminiscent of Tom and Hermione, (if Tom was just mildly provocative instead of murderous and psychotic), that I genuinely think that some of you will really love it!)))


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

 

_Bloody fucking hell._

It’s all that really comes to mind, though Ron reckons it sums this whole mess up well enough.

It was ‘sposed to be easy.

All he’d had to do was find Dumbledore, catch up with Riddle and Hermione, work out why the fuck Harry was shouting about the graveyard like it’s a real place that exists outside of his own sorry head, get Cedric out of that blasted the maze, rat out Karkaroff and Snape, and abraca-fucking-dabra, everything would be just peachy.

They would raise their pumpkin juice to the death of Snape’s career and enjoy the well-earned fucktonne of House Points Harry’s victory will have gained them, and that would be that.

‘Course, that was before Dumbledore’s eyes had gone all weird and manic when Ron mentioned Professor Riddle.

Before he’d all but bolted down the halls, alarmingly faster than he should be able to – a man his age – only to fucking demolish the door to his Defence Against the Dark Arts class, shouting the name ‘ _Tom’-_ Riddle’s name - like it had personally insulted him.

That was before the debris cleared to show Hermione bloody shaking, wand pointed true at Riddle – fucking _Professor Riddle_ \- the words ‘I AM LORD VOLDEMORT’ burning in the air.

That was before they vanished, both gripping Harry, swept up by the Triwizard Cup – which apparently was a fucking _portkey_ this whole time – after Riddle threw the _killing curse_ in their approximate direction.

Now, Ron’s hauled up in Professor Dumbledore’s office with the man himself, a dozen nosy portraits of Headmasters past, Professor fucking Snape, a rowdy phoenix, and the strong smell of liquorice wands, with exactly _no_ answers to the question he’s been parroting out for the better part of the last hour – with good bloody reason, he should think.

“But where’d he take them?”

Snape sighs, glaring at him for the apparent crime of interrupting a whispered conversation he doesn’t follow about a powerful memory potion that’s been bothering Dumbledore, and some bloke at Saint Mungo’s who’d come up with an antidote “of sorts”, and the fact that, come to think of it, Snape’s been feeling a bit foggy too, lately.

What their shitty memories have to do with Harry’s kidnapping, Ron doesn’t particularly know or care.

“Is it really necessary for the Weasley boy to remain?” the Professor says testily. “I don’t believe his presence is…. _conducive_ to productivity, and time is of the essence.”

Ron scowls.

“’Course he wants me gone,” he protests. “He’s only a bloody Death Eater. He’s probably working with Riddle.”

 _Riddle,_ which is baffling in itself, because Ron was even starting to like him, and he’d all but bloody adopted Harry and Hermione, and he’s a git, yeah, but _You Know Who?_

Ideally, Snape wouldn’t _be_ here when he’s trying to tell Dumbledore about what a shit bloke he is, but Dumbledore had sent for him immediately and desperate times call for desperate measures, or whatever it is that Hermione’s always mumbling around exams.

Snape’s eyes are alarmingly black.

“How _dare_ you,” he surveys Ron coldly. “Fifty points from Gryffindor.”

Ron’s mouth flies open, furious.

“You can’t do that!”

“Another _ten,_ for your insolence,” Snape hisses, and Ron whirls around to the Headmaster -

Dumbledore raises his hands, irritatingly calm, like he didn’t just blow up a fucking door trying to stop one of his Professors from kidnapping his favourite students.

“Come now, Severus,” he says warily. “The boy is undoubtedly confused by all that he has learned today.” He leans in over his desk, eyes bearing into Ron’s over the brim of his half-moon spectacles, face gentle and stern in equal measure.  “Mr Weasley, you are not wrong that Professor Snape was, at a time, a Death Eater. It is not something, naturally, that is disclosed, because it is rather nobody’s business. Those days are long gone, I can personally attest to it. I will not tolerate suggestions that Severus is anything other than entirely repentant. He was not involved in this.”

Ron swallows.

Exactly why Dumbledore’s so bloody convinced Snape’s grown a heart of gold he can’t guess, but he’s pretty sure Snape might actually kill him if he keeps at it.

“What, so,” he shakes his head. “So _Professor Riddle_ is You Know Who now?”

Dumbledore’s jaw seems to tighten, though his eyes are serene, still.

“The man you know as Professor Riddle,” he says softly, “Is, in a sense, Lord Voldemort, yes. Remarkable, that he had managed to go unnoticed for all this time.”

He says the name, like Harry says the name, and it’s almost _cool_ , how it sounds, how he isn’t afraid of it.

Ron isn’t nearly as game.

“Sir, I don’t understand. I thought You Know Who was old? Also dead, yeah, but, y’know, even if he wasn’t, I thought he was old.”

Snape’s bead eyes meet Dumbledore’s for a long moment, some silent exchange passing between them.

“It is stronger, isn’t it, Severus?” Dumbledore murmurs, expression grave.

He glances pointedly at the other man’s wrist, and Ron follows his gaze, throat dry as he realises that he’s most probably talking about the Dark Mark that Hermione had seen last night.

“Indeed,” Snape says, slow, reluctant, and Dumbledore simply nods, eyes falling closed for a moment.

Ron’s cough is high, impatient in his throat, and Dumbledore glances over him again, his gaze softening.

“Lord Voldemort is older than Professor Riddle, yes,” he says, carefully. “If my theory is correct, that Lord Voldemort is returned, and Harry encountered him this evening, Professor Riddle is something else entirely.”

Ron leans in, intrigued and, admittedly, shitting himself.

“What is he, then?”

Dumbledore hesitates, casts his eyes beyond Ron, toward the winding staircase that led them here.

“We do not have long to act. Mr Weasley, if you would be so kind as to send word to Professor McGonagall – have her to see to it that the students are safely escorted to their dormitories. You will go to your own dormitory at once thereafter, and you will ensure that your friends in Gryffindor House do the same. I fear our wards have been compromised, and it will not do to delay rectifying things. If I am not mistaken, we are all in more danger than I would care to guess. To fortify Hogwarts, you must all be safely within its walls. Professor Snape will remain here.”

Ron blinks, incredulous, from Dumbledore to Snape.

“You want me to go to my dorm?” 

“I do,” Dumbledore says measuredly.

“Harry’s my friend,” he says hoarsely. “Hermione is my friend. They both- I mean, just - they’re my best _friends,_ Sir.”

“Never say concisely that which you can say in a series of unintelligible murmurs,” Snape mutters, sardonic, and Ron’s cheeks feel suddenly hot.

“I’m not just gonna go to my dorm when my best friends have been bloody kidnapped by _You Know Who_ ,” he croaks, and saying it, _hearing_ it, makes everything suddenly, awfully real, and his jaw goes slack-

“If you think you’re serving Potter’s interests better by having a tantrum here you’re more a fool than I had first feared,” Snape drawls.

_Git._

Professor Dumbledore casts a disapproving look at the Professor.

“I believe what Severus means,” he clears his throat, “is that the best thing that you can do for Harry and Hermione right now is to make sure that you, and their fellow students, are safe. That Hogwarts is a secure place for them to return to.”

Ron twists his lip, uneasy.

It’s not like he doesn’t _know_ he’s not exactly an Auror.

His wand is still wonky and his memory of defensive spells is foggy at best.

He knows that it’s possible to track people using some of their things – mum and dad used to do it when Charlie disappeared on his routine dragon hunting expeditions when he was younger- but he’s no idea how to actually perform the spell.

He knows Professor Dumbledore is not wrong.

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like it.

“You care very much for your friends,” Dumbledore says, that annoying, empathetic look about him suggesting he knows _exactly_ what Ron’s thinking. “It is admirable. I can appreciate that it is not easy for you to leave this to me. Rest assured, Mr Weasley, finding them is my absolute priority. Severus and I are to immediately commence brewing a tracking potion that will allow us to do just that. You have my word that I will keep you updated.”

Ron draws in a breath.

He tries to think what Hermione would say.

The thing about having a clever friend, though, is you’ve got to be clever to work out what it is they’d say, and Ron _isn’t._

Would she tell him to stop being an idiot? To listen to Dumbledore, scurry along, trust that he’d save her and Harry?

Would she tell him to stop being an idiot, to question him? To demand to know more about Professor Snape, about how, why, a former Death Eater came to be Hogwarts Potions Professor?

Would she tell him to pick up his wand and come for them himself?

He doesn’t _know,_ and it is infuriating.

He doesn’t _know,_ but Snape and Dumbledore are staring, now, impatient, waiting.

He nods when the silence has dragged on a beat too long, scrambling up and mumbling his agreement.

Ron has almost reached the very bottom of the stairs that he brought him here when Professor Dumbledore speaks next, voice hushed as he addresses the Potions Professor who remains, the great ugly gargoyle waiting to twist and deliver him to the cold corridor on its other side.

He pauses, ears straining.

He almost does not hear the man when he asks what Professor Snape knows about ‘Hocruxes’.

Almost.

* * *

 

Hermione is blinking into a setting sun, disoriented where she stands and altogether too entwined with Tom Riddle on cream pavement that is altogether too familiar.

With an indignant grunt, she drops her arms at once from where they have found themselves traitorously linked around Tom’s, as it happens, rather broad shoulders.

She staggers backward, wand still trembling in her fingers, and she makes sure to point it in his approximate direction.

He doesn’t seem remotely bothered by it, and that’s if he’s had the grace to notice.

Tom is squinting at their surroundings, lips in a tight line, a most displeased look making itself at home on his face.

On Tom’s other side, Harry has crumbled to his knees upon impact and promptly rolled to his side and thrown up, the contents of his stomach, in an unceremonious explosion, meeting the concrete in a violent collision.

Hermione winces at the sound - the _smell_ \- of it, this unfortunate outcome of apparition, but before she can go to him, Harry has wiped his sleeve across his mouth and scrambled to his feet.

“Where have you taken us?” he manages between a pant and a throaty cough.

Tom’s eyes flick lazily over him, taking in the pool of sick with a crinkled nose and look of supreme distaste.

“I might ask you the same question,” he says tightly, eyes accusingly narrow. “What is this, Potter? The dismal Muggle address you return to in the summer? Exactly _why_ did you choose precisely this moment to get nostalgic about it?”

Harry shakes his head, incredulous.

“I don’t – this isn’t my street,” he says exasperatedly. “You’re the one who apparated us here, why don’t you explain what the fuck you’ve done?”

He steps forward, before Hermione can think to stop him, and in an instant, all she sees is Harry’s wand, pressed firm into Tom’s chest.

 “Better yet,” he says through gritted teeth, “why don’t you explain what you meant when you said that Cedric isn’t dead?”

“Careful, Potter,” Tom says, with all the ease and comfort of a man who doesn’t currently have the deadliest weapon in the world trained at his heart. “You’re making a scene.”

He casts a pointed look toward the modest brick apartment block adjacent, where an alarmed looking old woman is peering through pink curtains.

He lifts his brows.

“Must I remind you that students aren’t allowed to use magic outside of school?”

Harry snorts, but Hermione does not particularly tune in to his harsh response.

She is staring back at the woman, the eerily familiar one, and then she is glancing around, taking it all in, and she feels it like a physical blow.

The apple tree out the front yard of the Smiths’, picked bare and rather sorrowful looking in the cold.

The Parker boy’s bike, more worn than she had last seen it, chained out the front of the apartments.

The painted-white fence that barely come to her hip at the house to the right, comprised of bricks and structured flower-beds, its painted bright green and yellow by –

_By-_

“Take us somewhere else,” she says, impulsive and utterly adamant.

It is not a question.

It is not a _question,_ because Merlin, she knows where they are.

She knows, and she wants to kick herself because it is entirely her doing – because Tom had _told_ her to keep a clear head.

Because apparition was based upon intention, and all she had wanted in that pocket of time was to be here, and it is _dangerous_ because now, he is here, too.

_Tom._

And Dark Lord or not, Hermione cannot _trust_ him.

Not with anything, anymore, and certainly not with this.

Not her home.

Not her _family._

Tom’s brows draw in as he whirls on her, comprehension striking the moment the words leave her mouth.

He groans.

“Brilliant, really _brilliant,_ Hermione.”

 He tears a hand through his hair, vexed.

“Didn’t I tell you not to think? Is it that difficult for that obnoxious head of yours to shut up for a fucking _minute_?”

 “Don’t you dare speak to me like that,” she says at once, even as she flinches at the harsh flavour of his words. “You’ve no right. Take us somewhere else. Or better yet, let us go, and you can – you can _sod_ right off on your own, whoever on earth you are.”

Tom blinks, looks for a moment as though he is not sure whether he is amused or offended, and Hermione hopes to god that he is the latter, because she entirely means for him to be.

“No,” Harry says hurriedly, and Hermione’s brows lift, because it is unexpected.

“No?”

“He’s not going anywhere,” he says, and there is something wild, desperate, in him now. “You heard him, Hermione. He said Cedric isn’t dead.”

“And I’m afraid I am not going anywhere without Potter,” Tom says conversationally. “And, as you can both see and smell quite plainly, it really wouldn’t serve well to have him apparate again in any hurry. _So_ , Hermione, you can run along home if you wish, or, as I suspect you’re more minded to do, you can invite us both into the dreary Muggle home that you’ve so rudely dragged us to before enough people get suspicious that the authorities are alerted.”

“Perhaps the authorities should be alerted,” Hermione says coldly. “Perhaps I will contact the Ministry myself. The Aurors are looking for you, Tom, or have you forgotten?”

 “They are,” he allows, with a shrug that is altogether too non-chalant for Hermione’s liking. “And if they find me, I will never tell you how we are going to save your Hufflepuff boy. Best wishes finding him without me, truly.”

Harry’s head jerks at that.

“Save him?”

His eyes are wide, voice hoarse.

Hermione’s chest hurts.

“Stop it,” she hisses, and she is _glowering_ at Tom Riddle now. “Stop taunting him. Stop _playing_ with us.”

Tom holds up his hands, palms open towards them and expression perfectly injured.

“I am not,” he says, too damn earnestly. “Playing with you, as you suggest. You have my word, Hermione. Invite us inside, and I will tell you what has become of Cedric Diggory.”

Hermione considers him for a moment before she sniffs, nose in the air in her scorn.

“It’s a pity your word means less than nothing to me.”

“ _Hermione_ ,” Harry says imploringly, and, with that, with a look at him, pallid and bleeding onto the footpath, her resolve falters.

“ _Hermione_?”

Hermione is frozen, body locked and shouting its protest, because she knows that voice.

Wrapped toasty warm in his worn grey coat and gloves to match, eyes squinting at her through brown-rimmed spectacles, her father is crouched upon the balcony tending to a cluster of seedlings, mere metres to their immediate left.

“ _Dad_.”

Her heart suddenly full and empty all at once, now, because Merlin, it has been a long while indeed, and after all that she has seen and discovered and _felt-_ after the unfamiliar mess that has been made of her life and Harry’s in a matter of hours, there is no sight that is more welcome than this wonderfully familiar one.

Her father, standing on the balcony.  

And Merlin, she does not _hesitate._

Does not quite appreciate that she is running until she slams into him, panting, now, and Merlin, she wants to tell him everything, and she feels ever so bothersomely inclined to _cry-_

Her knees tremble, the impulse to do it, to go _home,_ weakening them, somehow, not that it matters.

She has to warn him, that, _that_ is the only thing that does.

But where to _begin_ –

“Hermione.” Slow, sure, his face splits into a beam. His arms fasten tight around her, and for the first time this day, she feels steady, grounded in the here, the now. “Oh, come in, come in!”

* * *

 

Tom has had quite enough of this day.

It has been altogether abysmal, and not at all what was planned, what was _promised._  

It seems, however, that it is not quite finished with him, even now.

It _seems_ that it wasn’t enough that Lord Voldemort managed to send Harry Potter back to Hogwarts intact and moaning.

Wasn’t enough that Albus Dumbledore had _seen_ him, known him, alerted the fucking Aurors.

Wasn’t enough that _she_ just bloody well had to come along for the ride when he had intended, fully, upon delivering Potter to the Dark Lord for a second and final time.

Wasn’t enough that his Lord and Master had made him false promises; saw fit to treat him like an obedient _dog_ and not his salvation, his _equal_.

Wasn’t even, apparently, enough that the girl botched his apparition, landing them squarely in the native territory of the mundane and the Muggle.

No, the spontaneous addition of the narrow-framed, bright-eyed Muggle father and his meticulous herb garden in suburban England is the proverbial cherry atop this particular, catastrophic cake.

Jesus _fucking_ -

He plasters a smile across his cheeks nonetheless, and is certain to make it a truly disarming one.

“Mr Granger,” he says, as though this lanky pepper-haired man is the one person in all the world that he had hoped most earnestly to encounter at this precise moment. “I have so looked forward to meeting you. Please forgive us our intrusion.”

The man appraises him, a smile half-formed on his face, but it is uncertain, a question plastered across it as his eyes flicker between Tom and Hermione, who is doing a spectacular job at impersonating a deer caught in the headlights as he nudges aside the flimsy white fence guarding the Grangers’ house and approaches her father, hand cordially outstretched.

“Oh, hello,” Mr Granger says amicably.

He pulls off a fitted glove before he offers Tom his hand in turn, and it is warm, slender, for a man’s, but offers a rather admirably firm grip.

“And you might be?”

Tom’s smile brightens.

“Tom Smith, Sir,” he says politely, inventing the story even as he speaks it. “School prefect. I’ve had the pleasure of being your daughter’s student mentor this year.”

It occurs to him that he has no fucking notion as to whether or not Mr Granger is aware of the extent of the magical nature of Hermione’s education, more’s the pity.

“Oh,” Mr Granger’s smile stretches, becomes at once _earnest_. “Well, I’m most pleased to meet you! A credit to you, young man. I appreciate that our Hermione can be a bit of a handful in the academic arena. Most proud, of course, we’re _most_ proud- forgive me, I was not expecting my daughter for another fortnight. Is something the matter?”

Hermione, thank Merlin, has had the good sense not to say anything as yet, but her father is looking to her, now, where she stands at his shoulder, brow furrowed with concern and something else, something _warm_ , that makes Tom feel almost guilty for beholding at all, which of course, is nonsensical.

Tom sighs gravely.

 “I’m afraid there’s been some rather unfortunate business at school. I’ve taken it upon myself to ensure that Harry and Hermione are safely escorted home.”

Mr Granger’s eyes seem to darken, now.

“Unfortunate business?” He purses his lips. “At Hogwarts? Not anything to do with You Know Who, I hope? I was under the impression that Professor Dumbledore was well placed to keep Hogwarts secure in any event.”  

Tom blinks.

Now _this_ , he’s not encountered, not ever.

A Muggle who knows about _him,_ about Lord Voldemort; who knows about Hogwarts, has seen fit to bother recalling its name.

A fucking Muggle who knows about Professor Dumbledore.

And not only a little, either, if his comment, his knowing eyes, are anything to go by.

He ought not be surprised at Mr Granger’s knowledge of their world, of course.

Hermione Granger is an awful liar, and rather partial to speaking very quickly and enthusiastically about an all manner of things.

He supposes her Muggle parents were the very first beneficiaries of that, however undeserving they might be.

Then again, perhaps Mr Granger is not a Muggle at all.

Perhaps his wife isn’t.

Certainly, it would make more sense.

Certainly, it would be less profoundly _disappointing._

 “He is,” Hermione says, voice rather weak, though Tom supposes he ought not hold it against her. “And it _is_ something to do with You Know Who.”

Tom flashes her a look, a warning.

She looking past him, wide-eyes fixed on her father, but he can tell by the heated flush of her cheek that she _feels_ his gaze, understands precisely what he means by it.  

She would be _worse_ than a fool to say anything, now.

Worse than a fool, because there is not a possible world in which her father learning the truth of it, of _him_ , will help and not hinder the man.

There is no world in which Tom does not hold them all in the palm of his hand, have an absolute monopoly on access to each of the strings that might be pulled this way or that, may make them dance and die as he pleases.  

Hermione swallows hard, _falters._

She knows that she can say no more.

Knows it would only ever bring a world of pain upon her father – a world that, as it happens, Tom has no real desire to enliven at present.

Not, of course, that he wouldn’t, were his hand forced.

He gives her a nod, lets her know that she has made the right decision.

“Indeed,” he says, smooth, picking up where she left of so abruptly. “Perhaps, if I might intrude just a moment longer, Mr Granger, you’ll allow us to come inside? Mr Potter is not at all well, I’m afraid, and the evening is frightfully cold. I’ll be happy to explain it all as best I can.”

Mr Granger is nodding fervently before he can finish speaking.

“Of course, of course! Harry, dear boy, it is _good_ to see you again! You do look pale. Here, come in-”

He is stepping aside, and with the gentle pressure of his centre fingers, the painted white door behind him creaks in.

A warm, orange sort of light pours out onto them where they stand, inviting them in.

It occurs to Tom that he is about to step inside the confined space in this world that Hermione Granger calls home.

To become acquainted with the man who raised her.

He is about to be entirely _engulfed_ in all of the things that have constructed her, the architecture of her childhood.

About to be saturated in the pages of the books that she first read, conquered even when the other children were still stammering the alphabet; surrounded by the photographs framed and centred on the walls, the drawings, all the things that one would never find at Wool’s – no, there was nothing remotely personal there for him, not really, but she is _different_ –

His chest tightens.

“Mr Granger,” Harry says hastily, and Tom has the entirely adolescent urge to roll his eyes, because Merlin, of course _, of fucking course_ , the boy sees it as his personal mission and purpose to save Mr Granger from the terrible dark wizard who has taken them captive.

Tom slides his hand into the pocket his wand is stowed away in.

He needn’t, of course – could as easily tear them to pieces without its assistance.

He needs the boy to _understand,_ is all.

Harry’s jaw tightens.

His eyes are on Tom’s, and not Mr Granger’s, now.

“Thank you,” he says, albeit dully.

Tom grins.

* * *

 

Hermione is sitting at the dining room table and contemplating whether she is in fact, medically speaking, catatonic in her seat, or whether it merely _feels_ like she is.

Her father is at her left, buttered potatoes artfully balanced upon the silver spoon he’s serving them out on with clinical precision, and Harry smiles sheepishly from the chair opposite, unable, she suspects, to properly explain why it is that despite not eating a thing all day, he’s not got much of an appetite at all this evening.

Her mother arrives in a flurry of activity with tired eyes that widen when they find Hermione, and at once, the leather bag weighing her arm down is on the floor, and she is marching towards her with outstretched arms.

Hermione only feels numb in her embrace, even as the ever and always comforting aroma of spearmint envelopes her.

Her smile is so stretched, so forced on her features, that it is painful to maintain.

She cannot meet her mother’s eyes.

Not properly, however much she has missed her.

She is altogether too occupied _him._

In the faint glow of the candles that adorn the table, Tom Riddle is perfectly angelic, and she cannot stand it.

He smiles so terribly disarmingly at her mother, stands at once with his hands folded neat behind his back; suddenly, it seems, an advocate for manners and propriety once more.

He has taken on the character of Tom Smith as fluently as he had played Professor Riddle.

Smith, of course, is a charming, responsible young student with altruistic ambitions of becoming a Healer – a concept he entertained her father with at length, even as he offered to help with dinner preparations, insisted upon folding the napkins and divvying out the peas.

“Healer? I can’t say I don’t envy you. Magic would certainly assist in my line of work – not that it isn’t positively fascinating, I tell you!” her father had said cheerfully.

“You’re something of a Healer yourself, Sir, aren’t you? A ‘doctor’, as the Muggles say?” Tom had replied with keen eyes that seemed to suggest that he was truly engaged, invested, in what it is that the other man is saying, though Hermione knows better.

At last, and too late, she knows better.

“Well,” her father had waved his hands, embarrassed, “in a very narrow sense, I suppose.”

“A specialist sense,” she interjects adamantly, and Tom lifts his eyebrows at her, amusement alive in his eyes.

She drops her gaze at once.

“A dentist,” her father clarified, and Tom had leaned _in,_ everything about the way he is standing, the parted lips, the furrowed brows, the wide eyes, constructing the perfect picture of a man _enthralled._

And it worked.

It fucking _worked_ , because her father looked positively flattered, cheeks pink and mouth moving in double time as he accepted the invitation to ramble on about his field, impassioned under Tom’s gaze.

Her heart aches.

Because Tom Riddle does not _care_ in the slightest about how dentistry’s history dates back to 7000 Before Common Era; does not _care_ that it was the very first specialist area of medicine practiced; does not _care_ about the times her father has been bitten by unruly children, had fingers sliced open on broken braces: but he is doing a rather wonderful job at making her father feel as though nobody in the world could care more than he, and oh, it is painful to witness.

 _Painful,_ the way he is entirely _bewitched_ by this man who slips between personas as easily as one might step into fresh robes; this person who moments ago taunted, threatened, the darkest wizard of all time, who, hours earlier still, claimed to be that precise wizard himself.

This person who had Hogwarts, _her,_ perplexed, enamoured, for the better part of the year. 

This person who was Professor Riddle first, and second, only Tom, and next still, the Dark Lord, and now, to her father, Tom Smith, prefect.

This perfectly dangerous stranger who is making himself at home in hers. 

She wants to be ill, precisely as Harry had been.

If only she were to open her mouth, she fears she might do just that.

Based on the disgusted look on her friend’s face, she supposes that she is, at least, not alone in feeling this way.

Tom Riddle had tried to kill him.

Whatever it is that she doesn’t understand about what has happened, what is happening, now, she understands that with perfect clarity.

He put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire, and when Plan A failed, he was ready with an alternative; ready to dutifully march him back to You Know Who, to barter over what, exactly, his life was worth.

He had-

Well, she supposed he had changed his mind.

Changed his mind, and You Know Who had not touched Harry, not touched her.

Tom Riddle had not allowed it.

He had-

No, he had not _saved_ them.

It was not saving when it was he who put them there in the first instance.

What it was, though, what it _means,_ Hermione cannot say.  

“We weren’t expecting to see you for another two and a half weeks, dear,” her mother is saying now, clipped, eyebrows raised pointedly. “I do hope nothing is amiss? You’ve not even done your final exams, have you? Goodness, what on earth is this about? Not that I am not perfectly delighted to see you, of course- and you, Harry, and-”

“Tom, Madam,” Tom says quickly, hand outstretched, and Hermione winces as her mother takes it in her own, appraises the handsome stranger in her kitchen. “Tom Smith. Prefect.”

“Are you a Gryffindor as well, then?” she asks shrewdly. “You’re not wearing red, is all.”

Because, of course, he is really a Professor who was lying about being a Professor, though Hermione cannot tell her that.

“I am, yes,” Tom says – and Hermione suppresses a snort because if that isn’t the most preposterous thing he’s said all damned day – “I had no classes today and was not required to wear the House colours – one of the perks and privileges of being a seventh year, you understand.”

“I see. Pleasure,” her mother says rather absentmindedly, not, Hermione thanks Merlin and every god there might be besides, as utterly charmed by the monster in disguise as her father unquestionably is, at this point. “Now, Tom, perhaps you can tell me to what we owe this most welcome visit?”

She sits opposite him, fixing him with an expectant look.

Tom swallows gravely, and Hermione is struck by how very _genuine_ the sorrow in his eyes, the rigged line of his jaw, seems to be.

_Liar liar liar liar –_

“Most unfortunate, I’m afraid, Madam,” he says. “I believe your husband-”

“Call me Walter,” her father supplies, too warmly.

Hermione digs her fingernails into her palm roughly when Tom has the audacity, the sheer nerve, to oblige.

“Walter,” he smiles – Merlin, he’s not ceased _smiling_ this entire damned evening, “is familiar with You Know Who.”

Hermione’s mother sits upright, cautious.

“The Dark Wizard responsible for the slaughter of many of us non-magical people as well as his own kind,” she says, deliberately, Hermione thinks, not looking at Harry out of tact. “Yes, I am familiar.”

Tom inclines his head.

“We were, of course, all quite under the impression that he was long gone. Alas, it seems that he had a servant at Hogwarts. One of the teachers,” he grimaces, and Hermione can only watch, incredulous, _furious,_ as he narrates his own story to her parents from somebody else’s point of view, somebody _innocent._ “Professor Riddle. He was new this year, and his methods _were_ rather controversial. Still, we hadn’t anticipated this. Professor Dumbledore had employed him, after all. Irresponsible, of course, that he allowed such a person into our walls – where parents may duly expect their children to learn safely.”

Hermione glares at him pointedly, stabbing her potatoes with a tad more force than strictly necessary. 

Her father nods fervently.

“Irresponsible indeed,” he mutters. “I will be writing a letter to this Professor Dumbledore.”

“Alright,” her mother swallows, brows furrowed. “But Professor Riddle is merely a servant, you say? Surely he has been apprehended by the appropriate authorities?”

“Professor Riddle will never set foot in Hogwarts again, Mrs Granger,” Tom says gently. “Unfortunately, it seems that he may have found his old Master, helped him to regain his strength before his loyalties were discovered by Hogwarts. In the circumstances, the school is being evacuated so that better security can be obtained.”

“They think he’s back, then. You Know Who,” her father says, voice hushed, awestruck and afraid in equal measure. He’s stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth, transfixed. “We owe you thanks. Tom. I certainly feel better with Hermione under our roof, in the circumstances. How dreadful. I do hope the- oh, the _Aurors_ \- are able to find him.”

Tom’s lip twitches at her father stumbling over the term.

Hermione wants to hit him.

Of course, she is frightfully aware that he could kill her in an instant, and her father in less, and so she decides against it.

“And what of the examinations?” her mother says pressingly, and with the quirk of his lip, Tom’s eyes flit across to Hermione’s, something knowing, teasing, glittering there.

She folds her arms and resists the overwhelming, though admittedly childish, desire to stick her tongue out at him.

“They have been postponed until a date to be fixed,” he says, tousling his hair lightly with his fingers. “I must say, Mrs Granger, that I can see where Hermione gets her academic focus.”

Her mother looks at her, a faint smile taming the usually rather harsh line of her lips.

“She’s never needed much encouragement.”

Her father chuckles at that, reaching a hand across to cover hers.

“I’ll say. She made her kindergarten teacher cry once! Now _that_ woman can attest to her drive,” he says it _proudly,_ though Hermione hardly considers that particular feat one of her finest achievements.

She turns promptly crimson.

“ _Dad_.”

“Now, Hermione,” Tom muses, “I don’t believe I’ve heard this particular story before, and I must insist upon hearing it now.”

“Nor me,” Harry says, and he looks awful, still, _tortured_ , but there is something like a smile playing at his face now, and it is this, and only this, that has her reluctantly holding her tongue as her dad presses on.

“Hermione was always asking questions when she was little,” he says. “Nothing remotely wrong with that of course, perfectly healthy- we encouraged it where we could. Too many kids these days are growing up perfectly frightened to ask questions, it’s truly astonishing. Afraid that it exposes their ignorance to their classmates, I expect, but one really cannot expect to _learn_ otherwise-” he clears his throat, a sheepish smile flitting across his features. “But I digress. Her first day of kindergarten Hermione had a great number of questions for her teacher, you can imagine, and it seemed that the poor woman was in no position to answer them. Still, our girl kept asking and asking until finally, the woman simply burst into tears!” he grins. “I got a call from the kindergarten after that – had a stern talking to, she did, but I must say, I was rather proud, myself. A shame the poor teacher was upset, of course.”

Her mother shakes her head.

“Simply too sensitive, that one. Why go into the field of education if you’re not qualified to answer the questions you can expect to receive, after all?”

“Yes,” Hermione says, ever so politely, and before she can stop herself. “Why go into the field if you’re not qualified to do the job?”

Tom meets her eyes, now, and she is _scowling_ , but he smiles at her as though she is coming undone, blushing under his gaze instead.

It is insufferable.

“Tell me, Hermione, did you make a habit of making your teachers cry thereafter?” he inquires, amusement brightening the brown in his eyes, and she flinches, because, of course, it makes him look rather kind.

Rather human.  

Hermione tilts her head, chin lifted, defiant as she beholds him.

She sniffs.

“If I did, Tom, I’m sure I’m not remotely sorry,” she says, making sure to saturate her every word in _honey_.

His teeth gleam in the quivering light of the candles.

* * *

 

“Terribly cold, we think it’s best that you both stay with us for the evening, especially if You Know Who really is returned. You ought to let your guardians know you’re safe – you are welcome to use our telephone, if you like,” her mother is saying, waving her arm in the general direction of the guest room that is always ready for her grandparents upon unexpected visits, and Hermione strains her mind for a viable reason to expel Tom Smith out into the chill of the night other than ‘he might or might not be You Know Who, and might or might not want to kill Harry’.

Her jaw tightens and Tom’s eyes flash, noting the tense set of her shoulders with a cautionary frown.

“That’s very kind, Mrs Granger,” he says, voice suddenly rather smalls. “The orphanage is not expecting me tonight, so I need not call ahead.”

_Orphanage._

Harry suppresses a scoff, and Hermione can’t blame him.

So now Tom Smith has tragical home circumstances, too? Merlin, the terrible _nerve_ of him-

“Orphan-” her mother pauses, face at once transformed by a cocktail of guilt, sympathy. “I must apologise, Tom, I had no idea.”

“It’s perfectly alright,” he says kindly. “I must thank you for your hospitality. I’m afraid home cooked meals are something of a rarity at the orphanage. The company, too, is decidedly less pleasant, you can imagine.”

Hermione stares at him, incredulous and wondering, not for the first time tonight, what on earth he’s playing at.

“Of course,” her mother says, pale, stricken, as Hermione has ever seen her.

Tom smiles at her, and of course, why wouldn’t he smile?

He _has_ her now, as he has Hermione’s father.

Has her empathy, her pity, her admiration, now, and he does not deserve a _ny_ of it, and Hermione is fuming-

Her mother clears her throat.

“The shower is down the hall – Hermione, do be a dear and show your guests to it, and be sure to get the spare towels from the cupboard. Tom, Harry, you can sleep in this room. I apologise if it’s a little dusty – I can assure you that the sheets and pillows _are_ freshly cleaned.”

“Thank you, Mrs Granger,” Harry says – the first he’s spoken in a rather long while.

Her mother merely inclines her head, mouth ajar and wide eyes still flitting to Tom, still, it seems, reeling from his heart-splintering revelation.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she says at last, voice abnormally high in pitch. “Goodnight to you all. If you need anything, just shout, won’t you?”

“Thanks, mum,” Hermione says softly.

Her mother’s gaze drops to her, now, and she frowns as she studies her.

“My, you are _pale_ ,” she tuts. “Is something the matter, Hermione?”

Hermione swallows, the weight of Tom’s eyes on her suffocating.

“Nothing,” she bites her lip. “It is only You Know Who. I don’t know what he’s going to do now.”

And she doesn’t.

She doesn’t have a clue, and it is _petrifying_.

Her mother mutters an ‘of course’, and, at a loss for anything more, draws her in once more, holding her close, and Hermione finds herself gripping her too tightly back, as though she means to fix her here indefinitely, make it so that she never leaves –

So that Tom remains Tom Smith, forever, and so Harry remains safe forever.

But she lets go.

None too gently, of course, but it does not matter, because she lets go, swings the door closed behind her.

The façade dissolves the moment it does.

* * *

 

“ _Muffiato,”_ Tom murmurs, and with the jerk of his fingers, wandless as they are, the lock in the door _clicks,_ and at once, he is Tom Riddle again, the man who delivered them to You Know Who and back again.

Hermione swallows, fingers fastened around the wand in her pocket.

Harry is faster.

He whirls on Tom, face venomous and wand wild, trembling between his fingers.

“Go on, then,” he snarls. “Start talking. You said that when we were inside, you would tell us where Cedric is, so start _talking_.”

“Or you’ll disarm me?” Tom raises his eyebrows, untroubled.

“You know I’ll do more than that,” Harry hisses. “Or should I remind you?”

_More than –_

“What does that mean?” Hermione says slowly, eyes suddenly fixed on Harry – the set of his jaw, the mania in his eyes.

“Hermione,” Harry says, tired, cutting, “stay out of this.”

“I won’t,” she says adamantly. “This is _my_ house- those are _my_ parents he’s been lying through his teeth to.”

Tom makes a lazy, _shoo-ing_ motion, and with it, Harry’s wand clatters to the ground, graceless.

“Do calm down, won’t you? Have some civility,” he drawls, and with a swing of his legs, he is perched on the edge of one of the twin beds that has been made up for them.

“ _Civility_?” Harry bursts. “You absolute-”

Tom raises a finger to his lips, pressing pointedly.

“What did I just say?” he says calmly. “Now, if you’ll both sit down, and if you’ll lower that toy of yours, Hermione, we’re going to have a _conversation_.”

Hermione casts her eyes on Harry, and his are as hesitant as her own.

At Tom’s pointed look, Hermione sighs and grips Harry’s wrist.

Slow, deliberate, she draws them down until they are seated upon the bed opposite the one Tom is sprawled across.

 Tom smirks, satisfied.

He clasps his hands together.

“There. Now that wasn’t difficult was it?” he smiles for a moment before his eyes move to Hermione’s hand, and his brow furrows once more. “Wand, Hermione.”

“No,” she says, softly, but firm, all the same, because like _hell_ is she loosing the little power she has in this room. “You want to talk, Tom? I’ll talk to you. But if you think I’m doing it without my wand with my parents on the other side of this door, you’re even more of a monster than I think you are.”

Tom winces, and it is curious.

Curious, the way he seems to do that whenever she is moved to call him what he is, to be _honest._

The way he calls her wand a toy, laughs when Harry’s is trained at his chest, but flinches when she calls him a monster.

Perhaps it is because he knows that it is true.

Perhaps he wishes that it wasn’t, too.

“Alright then,” he says, more gently than is fair in the circumstances. “You want to know about Cedric Diggory. I told you already that he isn’t dead. Would you like to know where he is?”

Harry simply stares at him, incredulous.

“ _Of course_ we would,” Hermione snaps when it becomes apparent that Harry won’t.

“Alright,” Tom says reasonably, palms in the air. “I’ll tell you. But I want something from you first.”

This time, it is Hermione who is left simply gaping.

“No,” Harry says shortly.

“What,” she says weakly, “What could you possibly want from us?”

“Your word,” Tom says simply. “I want your word. You see, Hermione, the man that you met tonight was Lord Voldemort, as I hope you gathered.”

Hermione flinches at the name.

“I did.” She narrows her eyes. “I thought you said you were You Know Who?”

“I did,” he allows. “And I am. In a sense.”

“A sense?” Harry demands, and Tom sighs, searching.

“I suppose the best way to understand it is to conceive of me as a memory,” he pauses. “The Voldemort that you met tonight, Harry, that you revived, was once me. I am his younger self, so to speak. He preserved the memory of me, as I am, in case he should ever need me again in this form. We are connected, somewhat, of course. It is how I know where Cedric is. I need only proximity, not Legilimency, to see into Lord Voldemort’s mind.”

Hermione leans forward despite herself, curiosity burning, hungry, in her chest.

“That’s possible?” she breathes. “I mean, I suppose it always has been, in a sense. Photographs, for example, preserve you as you are, allow you to think and feel, but all within the confines of the portrait you’re trapped in, all in that particular _moment._ But you-”

“I am more, yes,” Tom says, and the hunger in his eyes seems to recognise, _acknowledge_ , the hunger in hers.

She looks away hastily.

“How?” she asks, hoping that she sounds a good deal more indifferent than she had a moment earlier.

“Who cares?” Harry says bitterly. “He’s Him. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? You’re just him. You killed my parents- you- you did that. You did everything he did. You’re _him_.”

“That’s awfully narrow thinking, Potter,” Tom says, exasperated. “And I didn’t kill your parents. I was just shy of seventeen when Lord Voldemort preserved me as I am.”

“You’re _seventeen_?” Hermione says, dumbfounded and livid in equal measure. “You – you were our Professor, and you’re seventeen? Did you even _graduate_?”

Tom looks as though he is trying valiantly hard not to laugh.

“Who _cares_ ,” Harry repeats, anger contorting his features, balling his hands into fists at his sides. “Tell us what you want.”

Tom inhales sharply at that, folds his arms across his chest.

“You are foolish,” he says softly, “to demand that and nothing more. But I will oblige.”

He tilts his head.

“Lord Voldemort has broken his word to me on a matter of utmost importance,” he says it matter-of-factly, but his eyes have darkened, and they will not meet hers, and Hermione finds herself shivering without truly knowing why. “I cannot abide it. I believe he has lost his touch, you understand. I believe that he is not as powerful as he ought to be. In short, it will not do to have him running about and spoiling our name. You, Potter, are his undoing. His weakness. A schoolboy, and still, he _fears_ you.”

He frowns for a lingering moment, caught, it seems, in thought, before his gaze snaps up, catches theirs with the sheer force of it.

“That is his great mistake. It will not be _mine_. If you are his undoing, Potter, you will be my fucking mascot. You will be my weapon,” he hisses, and he is upon them, now, kneeling on the floor before them, as he had knelt before Hermione, what feels like a dream ago, and his eyes are as bright now as they had been, then. “I want your word that you will be just that, Potter. I want your word that you will help me.”  

“Help you?” Harry shakes his head, bewildered. “What does that mean? What the hell do you want me for? And why the fuck would I ever help you do anything?”

“You will help me,” Tom says roughly. “Because I want you to help me bring Lord Voldemort to his knees.”

Hermione is frozen.

So much so that her breath catches in her throat, and she cannot bring herself to release it.

So much so that she cannot form a frown, cannot shake her head, cannot gasp or laugh or cry.

“You want to- _defeat_ him?” she croaks. “You- you brought him back, and now you want to defeat him?”

Tom flourishes his hands open, brows lifted as though to say, ‘ _naturally’._

“Circumstances have changed.”

“What, so you want to become the next Lord Voldemort, now?” Harry says bitterly. “No thanks.”

“I thought you only wanted to know what it is that I want from you, Potter,” Tom says cuttingly. “ _Why_ I want it is none of your concern. But even if you _don’t_ have an interest in bringing the Lord Voldemort that cursed you, _tortured_ you, to the ground, you will still help me.”

“And why is that?” Harry fires, but Hermione already knows.

“Cedric,” she whispers dully, and Harry is _tense_ , now, as frozen as she as terrible understanding strikes him.

Tom’s smile is not kind, now, though it is troublesomely pleasant to behold as ever.

“Just so,” he affirms. “Give me your word, Potter, and I will give you mine: I will get you Cedric Diggory back, safe and sound and righteous as the day he was born. Deny me, and I’m afraid Lord Voldemort was right to say that you’ll not see the boy ever again.”

“ _You_ ,” Hermione spits, disgust and indignance sending her stomach twisting. “You’re _unbelievable_. How dare you? Besides, you’ve already made it perfectly clear just how much your word is worth.”

“I have,” he inclines his head. “I expect you’re referring to my promise to keep Potter safe in the third task. I told you then that no harm would come to your friend in the course of it. Tell us, Potter, were you remotely harmed by anybody whilst in that maze?”

“In the-” Harry, whose mouth has simply been opening and closing in the shock that followed Tom’s callous ultimatum, shook his head. “What?”

“You weren’t, were you?” Tom suggests, eyes exceptionally bright in the darkened bedroom. “Viktor Krum saw to that. And _I_ saw to it that he saw to it.”

So Viktor _had_ been cursed.

Hermione’s heart aches at the thought of him – the beautiful boy who she had ignored at Riddle’s own warning, the boy who had _seen_ Tom for the fraud that he was before she had, and she had punished him for it.

“But,” Hermione shakes her head, exasperated as she is infuriated. “That isn’t at all what I meant, and you know it. You sent Harry to You Know Who and you – you let me to believe that you were _protecting_ him. You _promised.”_

“I never,” Tom says, voice peculiarly hoarse, “made you a promise that I did not keep, Hermione. I wouldn’t do that.”

“No,” Hermione says scornfully. “Imagine the kind of monster that would break a _promise_ , after all. Much _worse_ than the kind who would send a sixteen year old boy to his death and see fit to blackmail him into servitude afterwards, wouldn’t you agree?”

Tom flinches.

“I’d appreciate it very much if you would cease, for a moment, with this referring to me as a monster nonsense,” he says, and he is _angry,_ now, unhinged, and it is she he is looking at now, and not Harry, and he is tearing through his hair, vexed. “I’ve not lied to you, Hermione, I never fucking lied to _you_ -”

“You lied to me when you introduced yourself as Professor Riddle,” she bursts, incredulous. “Don’t you understand that?”

“I told you my _name_ ,” he says harshly. “I told you that my name is Tom Riddle-”

“Oh, well _congratulations_ ,” she all but shouts.

“I don’t know why you’re so fucking personally bothered by all this,” he snaps. “I never tried to kill you. I’m not demanding _your_ word. I never wanted to take _you_ to the Dark Lord. That was all your own doing. And, in case you haven’t noticed, I saved you from him.”

“You should _know_ that whatever you do to Harry you do to me,” she says bitterly, and she is vaguely aware that she is crying, now, though when the tears spilled, first, she cannot say. “And thank you ever so _much_ – for saving me from _yourself_ when it served your interests.”

“What would you have me do then?” he throws his arms in the air, and he is standing, now, towering over her, and she can feel his magic, reckless, agitated around them, like the firm, intangible tug of a gust of air, and in an instant, she is standing, too, her chest all but touching his and her wand left at Harry’s side on the mattress. “Tell me, Hermione, I want to know, what is it that you’d have me do?”

“I would have you _die_.”

She says it heatedly, furiously, not at all registering what it is that she’s saying, and it is only when she sees his face, the way the bright in it, the light, seems to die a little, the way his jaw goes slack and his lips falter, that she hears the words herself.

 She winces at the sound of it.  

“I see."

His face is disconcertingly empty.

He steps backward, only once, and it is staggered, uneven, leaving her panting in the centre of the room, alone with her curiously sour mouth.

 _I didn’t mean that,_ she has this instantaneous, overwhelming urge to say.

She holds her tongue.

She cannot be sure that it would be true, after all, and Hermione Granger cannot abide lies, no matter who it is telling them.

“Well, this was all very interesting, Granger,” Tom says coolly, his face a blank _mask_ , and he is not looking at her rather determinedly, “but I rather don’t care what you think my word is worth. I’m much more interested in what Potter thinks.”

Harry frowns, glancing between Tom and Hermione with a question on his lips.

He shakes his head.

“Just tell me where Cedric is,” he says, desperation colouring his tone and crafting his expression into one that Hermione cannot bear to behold. “Just- tell me where. Tell me first, and then, I’ll give you my word. Promise.”

He chokes on the last word, but it rings true, nonetheless.

Hermione’s chest sinks, of course, but she cannot bring herself to protest.

Not about this.

Not Cedric.

Tom purses his lips, considers it.

“Alright, Potter,” he allows. “I’ll tell you.”

Harry exhales long and soft, now, and it is astonishing, heartbreaking, how the tension that has taken hold of his limbs, his body, since he came hurtling into the earth of the Quidditch Pitch, seems to unleash him.

He closes his eyes, nods, and Hermione is leaning in, and the tears staining her cheeks are cold in the chill of the night air.

“You will recall Draco Malfoy, of course,” Tom starts, and Hermione raises her eyebrows at once.

“What does Malfoy have to do with Cedric?” she says, bewildered.

Tom shoots a pointed scowl at her.

“ _Draco_ doesn’t have anything to do with it,” he says flippantly. “His father Lucius, on the other hand, is a Death Eater. Cedric Diggory has been taken captive, and is in his custody at the Malfoy Manor residence at present.”

Hermione blinks, utterly perplexed, reeling, because Merlin, she had _wondered,_ of course, and really, she oughtn’t be surprised – Draco can be perfectly horrid, after all, and his views are entirely in line with the Death Eaters’.

Still, she had never imagined it, not really.

She wonders if he knows.

She thinks of Harry, promising Tom Riddle to help him, to ‘be his fucking mascot’, his weapon.

She wonders if You Know Who had given Malfoy’s father a choice.

Most of all, she wonders, with a mounting sense of dread, what has become of Cedric Diggory under Lucius Malfoy’s watch.

She casts her eyes on Harry, now, his expression curiously devoid of any and all feeling.

If he is surprised, Hermione cannot tell.

If he is not, she is none the wiser, too.

When at last he speaks, his voice is as empty as Tom’s, though it is _firm._

“Take me to him.” He looks up, now, and there is something _dark_ , alive, in his eyes that is utterly alien to Hermione. “Take me to him, and I’ll be whatever you want me to be. You want Voldemort out of your way? I’ll kill him myself.” He swallows, hard. “Just take me to the Malfoy Manor.”

It is not a question.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you for reading! 
> 
> I am still in the process of responding to some of the wonderful messages and comments you guys have sent, but I just want to take this opportunity to say a huge thank you here to everyone for your support - I am so utterly blown away by it. Thank you so much for bearing with me on this especially long journey, it truly means more than I can tell you :'). 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. I am particularly unsure about my first attempt at writing from Ron's perspective, and my first attempt at writing Hermione's parents, so I would love to hear what you made of it! 
> 
> Next chapter we (fucking finally) check in with Cedric. I am actually super nervous and excited about his character arc and I can't wait to see what you guys think! We're also going to pick up where we've left off with Harry, Tom and Hermione, and there'll be a fair bit of Tom POV, so we'll get a proper understanding of the extent of his plans at this point insofar as Voldemort, Harry and Hermione are concerned. Everything that he's said and done this chapter is certainly deliberate and thought through on his part (with the exception of his whole 'omg Hermione I never lied to you why you even mad' outburst, that was just pure angst). 
> 
> To those nostalgic for the more lowkey, engaging interactions between Tom and Hermione, rest assured that there WILL be more of that to come, promise! 
> 
> For now, thank you so much for being here, and I hope you're all well xx


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

 

Harry is on his feet, which is something of a feat in itself given how very much he is trembling, fingernails digging hard into the soft of his palms.

His eyes, expectant, determined, bear into Tom Riddle’s, however valiantly Hermione tries to catch them with her own pleading gaze, because she absolutely cannot _accept_ the promise he has just made, the part of him that he has agreed to sell.

“I _said_ -”

“Take you to Cedric Diggory,” Tom finishes tiredly. “Yes, I heard you the first time. Really, there’s no need for such dramatic repetition.”

He is still sprawled across the length of the mattress he has claimed his own, ankles crossed elegantly over one another and one arm thrown behind his head, the very picture of relaxed nonchalance, even in the face of Harry’s urgent ultimatum. 

The insolence of it, the nerve, is truly astounding to Hermione.

“Dramatic repetition?” Harry snorts, incredulous. “If you heard me the first time, Riddle, then why are we still here?”

Tom blinks, lip quirked upward.

“We are still here, Potter, for several exceptionally good reasons,” he drawls. “The first being that Lord Voldemort is most certainly anticipating some appearance by you, or me, or quite possibly both, at the Malfoy residence, now, and has most certainly summoned security of the highest order to ensure that we are detained upon arrival.”

“All the more reason to act now,” Harry protests hotly. “What? You want to give him _more_ time to rally up his slaves?”

“Death Eaters,” Tom corrects him mildly. “Tell me, Potter, do you ever think before you act?”

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, leans toward them as he surveys Harry, exasperated.

“How exactly do you imagine you might help Cedric Diggory in _any_ way if you’re kidnapped on the spot? Really, I’m asking.”

He opens his palms out wide and beckons, inviting Harry to speak.

“Don’t be shy, now, Potter. Tell me your masterful plan.”

“I-” Harry says heatedly, though he hesitates. “I’ll kill them.”

Hermione jolts, a tremor greeting her at the back of her neck and trickling down her spine.

_Kill them._

And it is not that they would not _deserve_ it – of course they do. Or, she supposes, they deserve to be prosecuted, bound by Aurors, afforded a fair hearing. Their victims deserve the truth, distilled from _veritiserum_ in open court. After that, they will deserve the Azkaban sentence that the Honourable Panel sends their way.

It is not that they would not deserve it.

It is that this isn’t _Harry_.

“With what wand, once they’ve disarmed you? And they will, Potter. _Instantly_.” Tom says indolently. “This will require a plan, and a distinctly less awful one than yours. You might be content throwing your life away on the altar of a pretty Hufflepuff,” he sniffs. “Rest assured that _I_ am not.”

“ _Your_ life?” Harry scoffs. “You’ve just told us that you’re the walking memory of a teenage Voldemort. Some life you’ve got there.”

Tom inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring.

“Careful, Potter. That was rude.”

“Was it?” Harry says through clenched teeth.

For a moment, they only glower at one another, tension turning cold air hot.

In the end, Tom only shrugs.

“In any case, Potter, the situation is nowhere near as urgent as you imagine,” he says. “You showed your hand tonight, and Lord Voldemort is not, thank god, an idiot. He’s not the brightest he’s been, of course.” A smirk, arrogant, fleeting, ghosts his lips. “But he is not so foolish as to not use the bait he has to bring you back to him. Cedric Diggory’s life just became terribly valuable. More valuable, I daresay, than it ever has been, if it’s any consolation.”

It wasn’t, of course, if Harry’s persisting glare is anything to measure by.

Tom sighs.

“Cheer up, Potter. Lord Voldemort is not going to kill him. At least, not imminently.”

Hermione’s tongue traces, absentminded, over cracked dry lips.

It is not wrong, what Tom suggests.

You Know Who knows that Harry cares solely for Cedric’s wellbeing. Dangling that, Cedric’s safe release, before him is the clear course available to him now, and he would be a fool not to take it.

It would work best if Cedric were still alive.

At least for a little while.

At least until it fails.

That does not, though, mean that Cedric will be unharmed.

That does not mean –

“They’ll torture him,” Harry says flatly, and Hermione flinches, but of course, it is true, _probable._

Tom only jerks his head.

“He _is_ a hostage, not a guest of honour,” he mutters, softly.

A whimper, low, guttural, escapes Harry’s lips.

“That’s a yes, then,” he says bitterly. “What, and you think that’s alright? You think we should just- that we can just-”

“I think that is the reality of the situation,” Tom says, expression entirely indifferent, and it is _unnerving._

“Well I _can’t_ ,” Harry bellows, jarringly loud in the tense quiet of the room, and Hermione’s skin prickles-

She snatches his hand with her own, grip too tight, but her fingers do not falter.

“Harry, _please_ -”

“ _Hermione_ ,” Harry looks at her as though she has one quite mad. “I – Cedric is there because of me. Do you get that?”

“No,” Hermione shakes her head, adamant, even as her voice breaks. “This isn’t your fault. We’ll save Cedric, I promise we will, but just, please, think about how – I don’t want you to _die_ , Harry.”  

“ _Thank_ you,” Tom inclines his head, brows lifted pointedly at Harry. “Make him see sense, will you?”

Hermione scowls at him.

“Don’t,” she growls. “You’re mad if you think I’m letting you manipulate Harry into being your servant. We’ll find Cedric without you.”

“ _No_!” Harry shouts, sudden and adamant. “We can’t – we can’t save him without him.”

Hermione shakes her head frantically.

“That simply can’t be true Harry,” she says. “You know there are others who could help us.”

Others, she thinks desperately, like –

Sirius flickers through her mind, though she dismisses the thought at once.

He cannot risk detection by the Ministry.

Then, there is Professor Dumbledore, perhaps, though Hermione still does not understand quite where his loyalties lie.

He knew who Tom was, though, and he did not seem to care much for him.

That, at least, must surely be _something,_ some alternative to linking arms with a young and cruelly charismatic You Know Who.

“I’m afraid,” Tom clears his throat, delicately, almost a _pologetically,_ “that I cannot allow Potter to leave my sight. Rest assured, though, that he is far safer with me than with anybody else. I _am_ Lord Voldemort, after all.”

“Is that really supposed to be reassuring?” Hermione says bitterly.

Tom shrugs.

“Believe what you wish,” he says coldly. “It’s really beside the point, Hermione, because Potter has given me his answer. On that note, mind you-”  

With the sudden clap of his hands, he is on his feet.

“I’m afraid I’m going to need a little more than your mere word that you will show fidelity to this agreement of ours, Harry.”

Harry surveys him, cautious.

“What’s more than my word?” he says hotly. “I don’t make promises I don’t keep.”

To add _‘unlike some’_ in the present circumstances would, Hermione thinks, be labouring the point a tad too much, though it is rather difficult for her to refrain from it.

The way Tom’s lip twitches, eyes flickering for a beat toward her own, it seems he knows it.

“It is nothing personal, Potter. It has recently come to my attention that I cannot trust my Other self’s word. If I am not to take _myself_ at my word, you must understand that I must take due precautions with you – as, I assume, you may wish to take precautions with me.”

“What are you suggesting?” Harry says impatiently.

Hermione leans forward, a theory flitting to her mind even in the chaos, the fatigue, that numbs her thoughts, and her tongue catches her lip, mouth falling a little open.

Tom is watching her through hooded eyes, and the curve of his lip is almost _kind_ when he nods, confirming what she has not yet suggested –

“An Unbreakable Vow.”

Harry frowns, puzzled, even as some hard knot in the pit of Hermione’s stomach sinks.

“What’s an Unbreakable Vow?” Harry says.

Tom’s grin is dangerous.

“You’re not winning yourself any points for Gryffindor tonight, are you?” he muses, and Hermione wants to _throttle_ him, because Merlin, the audacity to remind them of his other crimes, of his fraudulent impersonation of their _Professor-_

“An Unbreakable Vow is a promise that you cannot break,” she says coolly.

Tom’s arms fold across his chest, his head tilted, eyes glinting with his approval – not that she cares for it in the slightest.

“Just so,” he murmurs.

“What do you mean cannot break?” Harry’s eyes narrow as they dart from Tom to Hermione. “What happens if you try to?”

Tom wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, concocting, she assumes, some pretty way of putting it.

She answers Harry before he has the chance.

“You die,” she says shortly.

Harry winces.

“Well, fuck,” he says it under his breath, and Hermione is shaking her head, cannot cease it, because Merlin, this is all so horrid, so perfectly w _rong_.

“You know I’ll say yes,” Harry says, colourless. “If you promise Cedric will be alright, then you know I’ll say yes. So let’s get it over with, shall we?”

Tom’s responding grin is _wolfish._

Hermione flinches, Harry’s every word damning, _surrendering,_ and she cannot stand it, but she cannot protest –

“Wait,” she says, desperate, and the two of them turn to her, the same exasperated expression sprawled across their faces. “If- if Harry’s going to make an Unbreakable Vow then you have to agree to his terms, too.”

“Naturally,” Tom says. “The term being that I help him rescue dear Diggory.”

“No,” she says firmly. “No, not only that. If he’s going to be your servant, it ought to be on his terms.”

“I believe that is marginally antithetical to the very concept of a servant, Hermione,” Tom says languidly. “But I will humour you, if you wish. What do you have in mind?”

He quirks his head, curious, and it is as though he is her Professor, still; testing her mind, picking it apart and holding the pieces under a microscope, evaluating each and every one of them with a gaze most critical, most sharp.

Still, it feels exhilarating.

So Hermione does not look at him.

“You won’t make Harry use Unforgiveable Curses,” she begins, before Tom’s amused snort cuts her off, and her eyes fly up, meeting his, because by some awful misfortune, it seems he never stopped looking at _her._

“Not likely,” he says, an incredulous eyebrow raised to complement his tone. “Try again, Hermione.”

She swallows, hard.

“Fine,” she allows, gritting her teeth. “You won’t make Harry harm his- his friends.”

At once, Harry nods.

“I won’t agree to do it otherwise,” he says. “You can’t make me hurt Hermione – or Ron, or any of them.”

Tom pauses, teeth resting on his bottom lip as he considers it.

“Alright,” he says at last. “Though you’ll have to be a tad more specific about who exactly your ‘friends’ are.”

Harry nods gruffly.

“And you can’t, either,” he says suddenly.

Now it is he who has Tom’s attentions.

“What?”

His eyes narrow.

“You can’t hurt my friends,” Harry repeats.

“I’m afraid I can’t promise you that, Harry,” Tom sneers. “It is entirely foreseeable that your friends may seek to attack me – to _liberate_ you. Am I not to defend myself?”

“No Unforgiveables, then,” Harry insists. “Nothing lasting – and nothing that isn’t in self defence.”

“Demanding, aren’t you, Potter?” Tom says, not, it seems, amused in the slightest.

“No less than you,” Hermione retorts.

Tom’s eyes set on hers, now, and she finds herself regretting speaking at all, most fervently.

“On the contrary, I think I am being rather reasonable,” he says softly. “All I ask is that you assist me in defeating Lord Voldemort. I would think that you were planning on attempting that, anyway. If you had any sense of all, you would be.”

“You’re asking me to do it your way,” Harry says grimly. “I’m just asking you to do this part mine.”

Tom grimaces, a moody expression rendering him a dark figure indeed, stood before them between the twin beds.

“You’re not going to use magic on my parents, either,” Hermione says.

His head snaps up, chin catching the starlight where it spills through the half-drawn curtains.

Hermione draws in a breath, ignores that it is uneven.

“I am not proposing to make an Unbreakable Vow with _you_ , Hermione.”

“No,” Hermione concedes. “But you do need me.”

There it is, now.

Again.

There’s that glimmer, perfectly conspicuous in the corner of his eye.

There’s the gentle tug of his lip, upward in one corner, fashioning his mouth into a satisfied sort of smirk.

“Clever,” he says, and the word sounds, _feels,_ like honey.

Hermione tightens her fists.

Of course it does.

He means it to.

He means to be kind, complementary, that she might forget what he has done; what he means to do, still.

To win her curiosity, her good opinion, as he had her father.

 “What does he mean?” Harry asks irritably.

“An Unbreakable Vow cannot be made by two people alone,” she says breathlessly. “It requires a third to – facilitate it, I suppose. A Bonder, to cast the spell. The promise must be witnessed in order for the parties to be bound, you see – the magic requires evidence of it.”

“Quite so,” Tom murmurs.

She blinks at him.

“I’ve never been a Bonder before.”

He almost rolls his eyes.

“Few have.”

“I have only read about the ritual,” she purses her lips.

“I don’t for a moment doubt your ability to perform it anyway,” Tom says, and she is not quite certain if he means it as a compliment or a threat.

To be sure, it feels a little like both at once.

She raises her chin defiantly.

“Either way,” she says crisply, “if you want my help, you’ll swear to that, too. That you won’t cast any magic on my parents.”

 _“Any_ magic?” he raises an eyebrow. “I take offense, Hermione.”

“Do you?” she says venomously.

 “Suppose you want me to use magic on them,” he says. “What then?”

“I would never want that,” she says hotly.

Tom shrugs.

“Never is a powerful word,” he says lightly. “You should be more careful with it.”

“No,” she says shortly. “I really shouldn’t. I _never_ want you using magic on my parents, Tom.”

Something like hurt tugs at his cheek for a moment.

He only sighs resignedly now.

“As you wish.”

Hermione’s smile is taut.

“Wonderful.”

 She shivers, casting an apprehensive glance in Harry’s direction.

 “Well then,” he says, tentative and determined at all once, “shall we?”

* * *

 

Tom examines the silver lines slashed across his wrists and Potter’s; glittering, ephemeral, as the spell binds their consciences in earnest, mesmerised.

He has only read about Unbreakable Vows; heard of them.

He had intended, in fact, to have his friends engage in them, when he returned to Hogwarts in seventh year – though of course, becoming a Horcrux rather disrupted that particular plan.

He wonders idly whether Lord Voldemort followed through.

In any case, it is truly elegant magic, though perhaps that is more a testament to the grace and composure of the witch conjuring it than the spell itself.

She was nervous, of course, at first; her nose screwed up in concentration and eyebrows drawn in, the very picture of anxiety, and his chest panged with something quite unfamiliar as he beheld her.

Hermione’s wand sways up and flourishes to the right with the practiced jerk of her wrist now, and Tom winces as the silver digs into his skin like rope, fastening tight until it disappears entirely, faint pink lines indicating where they were only a moment ago, now.

“There,” she says, satisfied.

She stows her wand away, and the tension that had seen her shoulders coiled stiff releases, somewhat.

Potter grimaces, glaring down at his own lightly scarred wrist, though really, Tom can’t imagine why.

This agreement is overwhelmingly constructed in Potter’s favour.

If anybody ought to be glaring, it’s Tom.

He has just undertaken to do everything in his power to guarantee Cedric Diggory’s safety and freedom;

Just undertaken that he will not, except in self-defence, harm Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, or any of the Weasley bloodline, or any of their Hogwarts peers, for that matter, and even in those exceptional circumstances, he has agreed that he shall not use Unforgiveable Curses.

Just undertaken that he will not compel Potter to harm them, either.

He has undertaken, too, not to use any variety of magic whatsoever on Mr and Mrs Granger.

He has just, quite willingly, undertaken to clip his own wings, so to speak –

But it does not matter.

It does not, because of what he has, now, in return.

_Harry Potter._

And oh, it is going to be fucking spectacular to see Lord Voldemort’s face when he comprehends it, but that is not _all,_ is not why this, all of this, is unquestionably _worth_ it.

Because he also has _her,_ now.

Hermione Granger – and no, she’s not bound to him; not in the way that Harry Potter is bound, now, to follow his every instruction in pursuit of defeating Lord Voldemort.

She would never consent to an Unbreakable Vow, he thinks.

Never, and Unbreakable Vows themselves will only work to bind willing souls.

It would not do to _imperio_ the promise out of her.

Of course, he might compel it from her by way of threatening Harry Potter – her parents, perhaps, though the thought of it knots his stomach inexplicably, and besides, she would never forgive him for it.  

In any case, he finds himself quite vehemently averse to the idea of it; of taking her temper and her opinion and her fierce tendency to express it, moulding it to his precise liking with his magic.

It would be so profoundly _disappointing,_ somehow.

Unworthy of her, though it’s not a point he cares to dwell on. 

After all, _imperio_ is not a curse to everybody.

Not in any meaningful sense of the word.

It gives purpose, after all, and how many mindless Muggles, witches, wizards alike, lack purpose altogether?

To confer purpose upon such pitiful creatures is a gift, nothing less.

But Hermione Granger is not nearly so lacking.

To cast _imperio_ upon such a person would be to steal a gift, not provide it.

Besides, she is, as of this moment, bound to him, though she does not realise it.

It is _crucial_ that she does not realise it.

Because Potter is obliged, now, to stay with him.

To follow him wherever he might please, until the task is done.

And Hermione will _never_ leave Harry.

She will never, and so she, too, will follow Tom wherever he might please.

Her mind will follow him, wherever he might please, and _that_ will be his true weapon.

_She can never leave him, never leave -_

“That was excellent,” he tells her, because it was and he is not inclined to lie to her, perhaps ever again – not, he thinks, that she will believe him even if he tells her that.

Hermione merely sniffs.

“Yes, well,” she says, visibly fatigued, “consider yourselves bound.”

“Can we figure out how we’re going to save Cedric now?” Harry inquires desperately.

“Tomorrow,” Tom says, and the pair of them are positively glowering at him, now, betrayed.

“What?” Harry snarls. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” he says simply. “You, however, are quite distractingly covered in blood. Also, you smell.”

Despite everything, the boy turns pink.

“You want to postpone planning until I’ve had a bath?” he says, incredulous.

“I want to postpone planning until tomorrow morning,” Tom corrects him. “The bath is merely a friendly recommendation. Besides, I’m quite exhausted myself. Somebody deprived me of my bed last night, you know.”

His lip drags up in the corner, eyes flitting invariably toward Hermione.

Potter follows his gaze with narrowed eyes, suspicious and altogether taken aback.

A soft flush flatters Hermione’s cheek, now, to his immense satisfaction.

 “Enough,” she says snappishly. “Listen, I’ve got an idea about how we’re going to save Cedric. But he’s right, Harry. We’re no good to him exhausted - tomorrow, we’ll sort it all out properly. I promise.”

Harry hesitates, meets her eyes, and Tom only watches, something rather like envy stirring in his stomach, because Merlin, he cannot _read_ the exchange that ensues between them, now, but it is perfectly clear that they understand one another entirely, without Legilimens, without Horcruxes, without anything.

He wonders how.

He wonders what it feels like.

At last, Potter clears his throat.

“What do you have in mind?” he says. “I- you’re right, but, please, just tell me. I just need _something_.”

Hermione’s eyes are very wide and very fucking _kind_ when she nods, tongue flitting briefly across her lower lip.

Her eyes flash to Tom’s, and he catches them along with his breath.

“You said that He- You Know Who – will be expecting you,” she says. “At the Malfoy Residence. You and Harry. So you and Harry cannot be seen there. It would be a suicide mission.”  

Tom frowns.

He and Harry, she’s said, which means -

Merlin.

She cannot imagine that she might go _herself_ , unaccompanied –

“I would suggest that I should go, myself,” she goes on matter-of-factly, and Tom’s stomach twists its discomfort, “but he saw me with you today. He knows that I am Harry’s friend. I would be stopped before I could even reach Cedric, and then they would know that you know where he is. They would know for certain that you are working together.”

Tom purses his lips.

“It is out of the question,” he says firmly.

“What, so that’s it? We’re not going?” Harry says angrily.

Hermione shakes her head.

“No, Harry, we’re not,” she says tentatively. “But – there’s someone else. Someone we could, uh, _use_.” She flinches at the sound of the word on her own tongue, though Tom rather likes the sound of it.

“Draco,” she adds, eyes fixed on her own hands, now, and she says it hurriedly, as though she is ashamed.

Of course, she is.

Tom leans forward.

“Brilliant,” he breathes. “Yes, of course.”

“As if Draco would agree to break Cedric out,” Harry says thickly, though there is some hopeful undercurrent to his tone that has him leaning in, too. “Besides, he’s still at Hogwarts.”

“Well, we wouldn’t need him to agree,” Hermione says, timid, small, but no matter, that can be fixed. “I still haven’t quite figured out how to make sure he comes back from Hogwarts – a false letter from his family might not necessarily work, but it’s an option-”

“Wait,” Harry says. “When you say we wouldn’t need to him to agree-” he breaks off, jaw slack, and he would have to be truly simple not to understand, now, what she means, so Tom suspects firmly that he already does.

Tom could say it, of course.

Could say aloud that which the pair of them are scarcely giving themselves permission to imagine.

He doesn’t.

Only waits, eyes fixed on _her._

It is her idea, after all; her imagining, and not his.

Of course it is, because it is clever, and simple, and because it keeps Harry _safe_.

But she is ashamed of it, and that won’t do at all.

So she must say it.

“The,” she clears her throat, though it remains hoarse, still, when she finishes, “the Imperius Curse.”

Harry winces at the whisper, unflatteringly pale as his mouth opens and closes.

“Oh,” he murmurs at last, the lone word saturated in his guilt. “ _That_ -”

“Harry-” Hermione begins, apologetic and defensive all at once, but the boy waves a hand, cutting her off.

“That could work,” he says, and it is Tom’s eyes his seek, now, and not Hermione’s. “Couldn’t it?”

For a moment, Tom only stares.

Stares at Harry Potter, the fourth Champion, the manifestation of ‘moral fibre’ –

The one who insisted upon rescuing somebody else’s hostage in the second task, merely because it _felt_ too awful to leave anybody behind, stranger or not.

And here he is, now, reduced to _this._

Except it is not a reduction at all.

This boy is not broken, no, but stronger than he has ever been.

A weapon in the bloody making.

They both are.

“Yes,” he says, soft, and, he fucking hopes, reassuring, “that could work nicely indeed.”

* * *

 

Cedric Diggory is somewhere very dark and very cold, and he has come at last to the damning conclusion that it is nothing to do with the Triwizard Tournament.

At last, because it is peculiar.

That the Cup itself was the mechanism by which he and Harry came to be there in that dreary graveyard in a village that a worn sign declared ‘Little Hangleton’, would certainly point to the contrary.

He was utterly _convinced_ of it, first: ‘it’ being that this is all merely part of the contest - a final test for the prospective victor, a bonus round.

Perhaps the Cup detected that there were two Champions and objected most vehemently to the prospect of a draw.

He thought it when they arrived, hurtled through rippling air, crashed into dirt and dust.

He thought it when his eyes first fell on the ancient cauldron, the curious grave belonging to a man called Tom Riddle.

He thought it when Harry unceremoniously threw him behind said grave, his breath ragged, uneven, and Cedric had wondered, for the fraction of a moment, nothing more, whether it might just be because Harry Potter meant to kiss him.

And his lips were suddenly terribly dry, but he dared not wet them, dare not move, though he _wanted_ to, wanted to move closer, but his chest was tight and his hands were damp and really, he ought to initiate this, ought to let Harry _know,_ but it was beside the _point_ -

Because of course, Harry hadn’t.

Meant to kiss him, that is.

He only meant to compel Cedric to be silent, still, with his magic, which was hardly necessary, because after all, this was all merely part of the _Tournament._

Cedric even thought it when the man emerged; the man whose arms were heavy with the burden of the creature they carried, not that he could see it particularly clearly, frozen where he was rooted, helpless, to the spot.

He thought it, still, when _it_ was born.

The monster in the robes that flowed black over its shoulders, eyes empty slits and nose the same, reptilian-like in its features, skeletal in its form, like part-thestral and part-human.

He thought it, until it touched Harry.

 Just once: just once, it touched him.

Just once, and it elicited a scream, foreign and guttural and so saturated in pain that Cedric could not _help_ but shout his name, claw, desperate, against the spells that bound him, that kept his screams unheard by everybody around him, even as hot tears prickled his cheeks.  

He thought it, until it started talking.

Until it announced itself for what – _who_ – it truly is.

Then, this became real.

This became something else, something immeasurably worse, something that Cedric cannot comprehend or undo or reason with, because it goes beyond reason altogether.

He had _heard_ about You Know Who, of course.

He had the nightmares enough times, heard his father’s voice, gentle, as he reminded him over again that the Dark Wizard is gone and he is not coming back; that a boy called Harry Potter had seen to it.

He had wondered about him, when Harry’s jagged scar catches the sun, the Mark that was left, carved into his skin like an honorary medal, declaring that he _survived_.

That he had seen him, faced him, the darkest wizard ever to walk the earth, and that he survived.

He had wondered if Harry remembered.

If Cedric’s nightmares are the other boy’s memories.

He had wondered if Harry believed, truly, that He Who Must Not Be Named is gone.

He had wondered if Harry knows that it was his name, only _his_ name, that lent comfort to so many children in his world, most of all Cedric, when they could not sleep in the dark for fear of a man they would never meet, thanks to Harry.

He wonders, now, if he will ever know.

He wonders, now, if he will ever see Harry Potter again, or his father, or Xavier, or anyone.

At least, thank _Merlin,_ thank Helga and Godric and all of them together, Harry will see them all.

At least Harry is _safe._

The Boy Who Lived, and he would _stay_ that way.

Stay living and laughing and breathing for as long as Cedric has anything at all to say about it.

“See to it that you don’t get blood on my floor,” Lucius Malfoy hisses, a warning.

He discards the silver mask that had framed his face in the graveyard aside.

It flutters and folds into nothing before it hits the ground.

There is no light here, in this dungeon whose floor he is sprawled across, wrists anchored behind his back and tied neatly together with searing rope forged of a spell Lucius murmured when they were in the graveyard, still.

Cedric is still dizzy, _sick_ in the fog following the abrupt apparition here.  

It is not that he’s not apparated before.

 He’s insisted that his father bring him along a handful of times, and, ever the good sport, his pleas were answered in the affirmative more often than not.

 It’s always been rather exhilarating if nothing else.

He supposes, though, that this time is different.

He _has_ just been tortured, after all.

Perhaps it has not stopped.

His muscles are still seizing, shouting, as though the curse persists, still.

Certainly, the pain does.

The _pain,_ this peculiar brand of it, loud and grating and consuming and ugly, most of all, _humiliating,_ the way it breaks him to pieces, bursts his seams and sees everything inside spill out -

The way it tears at his edges, brings him to his knees, makes him s _urrender_ when he does not want to.

Makes him forget why he wants to fight, to live, at all, and that, by far, is the worst crime of the curse.

That, by far, is the most unforgiveable.

_The Cruciatus Curse._

What kind of a wizard, he had always thought, could possibly contemplate using such a spell?

The very name is unappealing, taboo.

It invites a snarl, ‘ _crucio’_ , and he was convinced that kind lips, indifferent ones, even, could never utter them.

It demands malice, _‘crucio’._

To wield the wand bestowed upon you at eleven years old, the wand that c _hose_ you, showed fidelity to you and only you, knew you before you knew a single spell by heart, and to use it as such a horrid tool for pain –

Professor Lupin had nodded, expression most sombre when Cedric had raised the thought last year, in class, and it was with a guilty sort of curiosity, a pang of sympathy that ran deep, that he had wondered whether that was the face of a man who had _seen_ it, felt it, even.

He knows the answer now, for certain.

Knows that yes, yes, it was.

“-no _idea_ what you’ve gotten yourself into, boy,” Lucius Malfoy is saying, and Cedric blinks up, wills his eyes to remain open, if only for a few seconds more.

When he squints, he can make out the set of a proud, high forehead, the glinting of eyes clear blue, like Draco’s; the thin press of a mouth burdened by a not fanciful degree of stress.

“Sir,” Cedric tries, but his own wince cuts him off.

His throat feels positively grated, raw. The mere sensation of cool air flowing in and out is enough to induce a truly debilitating surge of _stinging_.

He swallows, hard.

“Mr Malfoy,” he pants, “I know your son.”

The older man’s eyes flash, angry, in the dark.

“You will not speak of Draco.”

Cedric gets the feeling that Lucius is not asking so much as commanding it.

He nods, fervent, until something hot and searing claws at his throat, and he winces, crumbling in on himself on the floor.

Lucius’ brow wrinkles as he surveys him, distinctly unimpressed, it seems, with what he sees.

“You- you volunteered to take me, Sir.”

Cedric shakes his head, bewildered, _hopeful,_ though he oughtn’t be.

“You should count yourself lucky that I did,” Lucius says, coldly, and Cedric forces his chin upward, searches, desperate, for some light in his eyes, some semblance of kindness, of understanding –

Because Cedric knows Draco Malfoy.

Knows his reputation, at least among the Hufflepuffs.

It is not a particularly flattering one, though Cedric has yet to make up his own mind about the boy, for he would hate to evaluate him entirely on the basis of second-hand rumours.

As far as he truly knows, Draco has never hurt anybody; not really.

For all his harsh words, and Cedric _does_ understand that there have been a great number of them, Draco Malfoy does not seem a violent person, though Xavier has always vehemently reserved his right to protest.

Draco is proud, perhaps, but that is hardly uncommon, and hardly entirely his own fault: Cedric knows full well that some students feel immense pressure to prove themselves powerful, worthy, for their family’s sake.

It is inherited pride, not born out of true arrogance, not always.

There is something soft in Draco, something that is just an adolescent who has not yet mastered his magic, just like Cedric, and he must get that from _somewhere._

But there is no gleam to his father’s eyes, now; no hint of a smile, no crossed fingers or slack jawline.

“You’ve no _idea_ the fate you’ve so narrowly escaped,” he says, expression altogether unreadable.

“I- I thought that he might kill me,” Cedric winces as the air burns his throat. “You Know Who.”

Lucius’s laugh is hollow.

“Perhaps,” he says curtly. “If you were fortunate. If you begged quite enough.”

 He studies Cedric, lips caught in a very tight line indeed.

“You’re a fine young man, Diggory,” he says stiffly. “Your father is an old coot, of course, but that can’t be helped. Draco has told me how admirably you perform in Quidditch – in the Triwizard Tournament.”

He frowns, shedding his robes and moving to shift his sleeves up to his elbows, not looking at him, now.

“Tell me, how does a boy like that end up here: throwing his life away for the likes of Harry Potter?”

Cedric blinks slow, now, eyes falling shut of their own accord, and the words are faint to him, distant, for all he hears, still, is one word.

Since it was uttered, he’s not really heard anything else.

_Crucio crucio crucio crucio_

“Harry is my-” he says hoarsely, and Lucius Malfoy frowns, leans in, to hear better.

_Friend._

But he isn’t, really.

‘Competitor’ doesn’t fit either – it is altogether too cold, impersonal, and that night, the Yule Ball, had been anything but that.

Every exchanged glance, every reluctant smile elicited from the boy’s mouth, had been anything but that.

“Harry is my-”

Cedric coughs, now, spurred on by an abrupt tightening of the chest, and his fingers ball into fists on the floor as he heaves, and something dark red drips from his lips, even as he splutters-

Lucius sighs, impatient and, it seems, perfectly reproachful.

“I told you,” he says, clipped, “not to get blood on my floor. This is my personal residence, you know.”  

“Sorry, Sir,” Cedric murmurs.

He drags his sleeve across his mouth, a task that really ought not feel as heavy, as taxing, as it does.

“What’s going to happen now, Mr Malfoy?” he says, when the man does not say anything else, and when curiosity, idle, almost indifferent, compels him to do so.

Because You Know Who could have killed him.

Merlin, he had _wanted_ to; the look about him, the way his wand hand twitched, his magic humming in anticipation-

But he didn’t.

And Cedric does not know why.

Nobody, he knows, lives, once He decides to kill them.

Nobody, until Harry Potter.

But what about the ones he didn’t kill?

They would have to be _useful._

Mercy, compassion, is out of the question, and so they would have to be useful, to leave with their lives.

Which means that Cedric must be useful to Him, but that does not make _sense-_

Something does flicker, now, in the older man’s eyes, a shadow casting fast over light.

Lucius purses his lips.

“It is regrettable,” he says, slow, and for that, Cedric is grateful, because as the seconds drag on, relentless, he finds himself unable to quite keep up with them, “but as I say, you must count yourself fortunate that you are not in the custody of my colleagues. I’m afraid they would not be nearly so gentle.”  

“Regrettable?” Cedric blinks, dazed, and still, it does not make _sense._

Lucius does not relieve his perplexed mind.

Not, at least, with words.

But his wand, polished black and shining, even with no light to catch, here in the damp and dark, is at his side, now.

“Formalities, Diggory,” Lucius mutters, more to himself than to Cedric, for he is not looking at him, not anymore.

His eyes are wide, unfocused, eyebrows fluctuating between furrowing in and reaching up as though they are lost and cannot recall quite where they are supposed to be, in the circumstances.

“The Dark Lord will know it if I don’t. Yes, the only way, I’m afraid.”

“Mr Malfoy,” Cedric says, but Lucius does not respond, does not seem to hear it at all.

Slow, but sure, unwavering, the nib of his wand finds Cedric’s chest.

His lip drags up, an unpleasant curl, and Cedric shudders before he says the word, because he already knows what it will be -

“ _Crucio.”_

Cedric sees fire.

Or perhaps he is on fire.

Perhaps he is wrong, is truly engulfed in ice, instead, submerged in the Black Lake, having never, in earnest, returned from the second task.

Perhaps he is in that graveyard, still, writhing in the grass and dirt even as masked men jeer, shout their delight at his every twitch and grunt, their _admiration_ of the mad man pulling all of the strings with his poison, his dark magic, just to make him dance.

* * *

 

The room is silent, now, save for the low hiss of Harry’s shower running heavy down the hall.

Hermione folds her arms in close to her chest and tries as she might to ignore Tom, perched once more on the bed he claimed upon entering and polishing his wand with the end of his sleeve.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” he inquires dully, though he does not, thank god, look at her as he does.

“When Harry gets back,” she says curtly.

He raises an eyebrow, now.

“I don’t know what you’re so afraid for,” he says moodily. “You know that I’m not going to hurt anybody in this house.” He waves his faintly lined wrist at her pointedly. “As irritating as your father’s teeth stories may be, they are not worth my life.”

Hermione glowers at him.

“Dad’s a _dentist_ ,” she hisses. “And if you find his stories irritating perhaps you should stop pretending to be fascinated by everything he says. It’s unkind. Merlin, are you _ever_ not pretending?”

“No more or less than anyone else,” Tom shrugs reasonably. “And I beg to differ, Hermione. Sometimes pretending is the kindest thing you can do for somebody. How can you imagine your father might feel, for example, if I told him how utterly insignificant his life’s work is, in the scheme of things?”

“It’s not insignificant,” she says hotly. “And pretending is never a kindness. It’s exploitative, and manipulative-”

“No need to call me the same thing twice,” he says lazily, and Hermione feels her cheeks flush scarlet.

“I can’t believe you,” she fumes. “My _mother_ even feels sorry for you now, because of all that rubbish you told her about living in an orphanage-”

His eyes flash, now, some curious look about them.

“You assume too much,” he says abruptly. “And, if you must know, I was not lying about the orphanage.”

Hermione hesitates.

His mouth is soft, after all, and his jaw is the same, giving the impression that his face is, altogether, _open._

That he is telling the truth.

Still, she snorts.

“Don’t,” she says bitterly. “Don’t try that on me. It won’t work.”

To her immense surprise, now, he only drops his gaze, shoulders hanging low.

For a moment, he says nothing at all, and some sharp feeling that is rather reminiscent of sympathy, regret, tugs at her heart.

When the silence breaks again, his voice is terribly small.

“It was a Muggle orphanage.” He clears his throat. “I- my mother passed giving birth to me, and I did not know who my father was. Even after Professor Dumbledore told me that I was a wizard – after Hogwarts – I was obliged to return to it in the summer.”

He won’t look at her.

He won’t look at her, and perhaps that is why Hermione decides that he is telling the truth.

Because there is a flavour to his voice that is _ashamed,_ embarrassed, and Tom Riddle could be any number of things, any number of people, but embarrassed, she felt certain, he is not.

He is too infuriatingly arrogant for that, too proud.

“If,” she pauses.

Because this excuses, of course, nothing.

Because she is still entirely betrayed by this man, in every sense of the word.

Because he is still _Him._

But in this one moment, the anger that has boiled over in her veins and spilled from her lips since this afternoon simmers, low, in the face of _this._

“If you are telling the truth,” she says quietly, “then I am sorry to hear it. No child deserves to grow up in a world without parents who love them.”

She casts a glance at him, now.

His brow is furrowed, eyes glazed over, though he is not looking at her, still.

“Love them,” he mutters, colourless.

He says nothing more.

Hermione frowns.

She should go to him, she thinks, though she strikes the idea out as madness at once.

“I liked lying to you,” Tom says at last, tone utterly blank, and Hermione scolds herself, at once, for having even a single sympathetic thought in relation to him, because _Merlin-_

“You _what_?” she says, furious.

“Liked lying to you,” he repeats, and she is opening her mouth to tell him precisely what she thinks of his earnest confession, but he is not finished. “I wanted to say that I didn’t, but it wouldn’t be true, and I am beginning to appreciate quite how much you loathe dishonesty.”

Hermione only blinks, now, unable to determine, in even a vague sense, what on earth he is playing at.

“I liked the way that you respected me. Trusted, even.”

“It wasn’t real,” she says at once. “Don’t you understand that?”

Tom’s laugh is hollow.

“I think that I do,” he says tiredly. “Yes.”

Hermione shakes her head, bewildered.

“Then _why_ -”

There is a creak in the floorboards outside, and Hermione notes, startled, that the steady hum of the water in the bathroom has ceased.

“I don’t know,” Tom says, and he sounds as utterly _lost_ as she feels, and he has no right to.

He still is not looking at her, and she’s half a mind to demand that he does.

But the shuffling outside grows louder, nearer, and Harry is pushing open the door, now, smelling of soap and particularly narrow-framed in her father’s jumper.

She musters a smile.

“Do you feel any better?” she asks gently.

Harry nods stiffly in response.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “I’m just glad we’ve got a plan. I’m just glad he-”

He breaks off, and Hermione notes the tinge of red around his eyes that was not there before.

Her heart hurts.

“Glad he’s alive,” she finishes. “And he’s going to stay that way, Harry. He’s going to be okay.”

She glances at Tom, now.

He is staring at the wall, still, lost, it seems, in thought.

 _I don’t know,_ he had said, and it was unfair, terribly so, because she hates him, of course she does, but Merlin, if what he had said was true –

“He’d better be,” Harry says, voice low, too dark for comfort.

Hermione flinches.

Flinches, because she knows what that means.

That Harry will do anything and everything to ensure that Cedric Diggory is saved.

Flinches, because she knows that she will do anything and everything, too. 

She will do anything, and she will not be sorry, though she feels, very much, as though she should. 

She nods. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! 
> 
> So sorry about the delay - things are a tad hectic on my end. Because of this, I have to admit to the very, very rough status of this chapter - most of it was written in the past two hours and, full disclosure, I have not been able to give it a proper check, so apologies for that.
> 
> I also want to say that I appreciate the time you guys take to read so much, not to mention the time and effort that you put in to leaving comments. It truly blows me away, every time! As always, I would love to hear your thoughts and feelings about this chapter - though I want to emphasise that you should by no means feel any pressure to do so! 
> 
> I vaguely recall promising plentiful Tom POV in this chapter - that didn't quite eventuate, so I apologise about that! I've decided that the extent of his plans will be better revealed in the next chapter, not this one.
> 
> I'm not entirely sure when I'll have time to update, but rest assured, this fic is not being abandoned, and the update will come as soon as possible :). I also wanted to ask, given that updates are unfortunately becoming a bit less frequent, if you guys would benefit from a quick summary of the plot so far at the beginning of chapters? 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you are all well!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Time: In the aftermath of the graveyard ritual, Cedric is being held captive and tortured at the Malfoy Manor pursuant to the instructions of Lord Voldemort. Harry, Hermione, and Tom Riddle, now out and proud as a younger Lord Voldemort, fled an encounter with his older counterpart, by apparition accident, to Hermione’s home, where Tom is known to her parents only as ‘Tom Smith’, Gryffindor Prefect and mentor. Tom and Harry have sealed their agreement that Tom will help Harry rescue Cedric, and that Harry, in return, will become a weapon for Tom to use in his fight against Voldemort, with an Unbreakable Vow. Ron, back at Hogwarts, is worried sick about his friends, and was intrigued when he overheard Professor Dumbledore saying something most peculiar to Professor Snape about ‘Horcruxes’.
> 
> Warning: sliiiiightly nsfw content ahead.

* * *

 

Something solid smacks _sharp_ across the back of Ron Weasley’s head.  

With a jolt and a grunt in protest, his face jerks upward, chin jutting out as he glares into the morning.

He is met with a singularly horrifying sight.

Madam Pince: chin narrow and lips pursed, stands over him, rolled up _Daily Prophet_ at hand; her weapon of choice.

 _Madam Pince_ , but that’s right weird, ‘cause last Ron checked, the librarian didn’t crash in the Gryffindor boys dorms.

He blinks.

He is not quite as _horizontal_ as one might expect to be, waking up in bed.

Due, it seems, to the fact that he is not in bed at all.f

No, Ron is hunch-backed and collapsed in his chair across the width of the chestnut desk at the very back of the _library_ , a modest pool of saliva where his mouth had been pressed unceremoniously into its surface.

The _library,_ and squarely in Madam Pince’s jurisdiction, which means-

_Bloody hell._

He chokes.

The library, which means -

He’s done it.

He’s really gone and fallen asleep in the fucking _library_.

Which is bizarre, given he’s been here all of five times since first year, and twice, it was just to drag Hermione down to dinner, reluctantly and very much at Harry’s insistence.

Once, it was under Harry’s invisibility cloak.

Guess spending the night somewhat makes up for his negligence of the place up until now.

Still, it’s bloody _embarrassing_ is what it is, not to mention uncomfortable.

His neck’s stiff as a corpse, and his skin itches under yesterday’s button-up t-shirt.

Fred and George will disown him.

Only if they believe him, mind you, and they never will, thank Merlin.

Harry will have a fucking fit.

Hermione will be delighted.

If he ever gets to tell them, that is.

His stomach feels uneasy.  

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Madam Pince announces, with a relish Ron reckons is uncalled for.

“What?” he slurs, indignant, though not yet alive enough to properly show it. “But-”

“For breach of curfew, Mr-” the woman hesitates, eyes narrowed at him.

“ _Weasley_ ,” he says, trying not to be too offended that she blanked on his name.

He had the decency to remember _hers_ , after all, the old bat.  

“I- I fell asleep!” he protests. “Fuck, I fell asleep. In the library.” He shudders. “Trust me, Miss, this was _not_ intentional.”

“Language, Weasley,” she says, unamused, and unsympathetic. “And wake your friends, won’t you? You’re _all_ missing breakfast.”

The librarian raises a pointed brow in the approximate direction of the two figures, one in red and one in blue, crumpled over chairs of their own on the far side of the table.

Ron starts, getting, it seems, more disoriented by the second.

 What - just _what_ \- in the name of Merlin’s musty old ball sack is he _doing_ , asleep in his chair, at the longest desk in the back of the _library,_ a mess of books splayed across the middle and Viktor Krum and Fleur fucking Delacour collapsed at his side?

“I- yeah, yeah, I will,” he mumbles, staring at the pair of them for a moment.  

Madam Pince is marching away with her hands on her hips when he glances back.

With a shrug, he reaches across to Krum, grasping tentatively at his shoulder.

Bloody hard to do, what with all the muscles and everything, and Ron’s squeezing with everything he’s got, which, admittedly, is very little at this hour of the morning, by the time the Seeker finally grunts into the table.

“Vot happened?” Krum says at once, spine jerking straight and eyes sharp, alert, despite the fact that they have only just flown open.

The low, husky tone to his voice is the only thing hinting at the fact that he’s been awake for a handful of seconds – and it’s not half _bad_.

Bloody _sensual_ is what it is.

Ron tries not to scowl at him for it.

“We fell asleep. Madam Pince is right pissed.”

“Fuck,” Krum grunts.

He rolls his neck once, a spectacular cracking sound following its circular motion.

With that, the Bulgarian boy claps his hands together.

“Any progress?” he asks, nodding toward the assortment of books, old and new, pooled at the table’s centre.

“None,” Ron says dully. “The old Spanish wizard’s biography was a dead end.”

Never thought he’d say something like that and actually be unpleasantly surprised, but here they are.

Krum’s brows draw in, jaw set firm.

This, Ron has learned, is his ‘manly brooding’ face, and he’s half a mind to pay him out for it.

He holds his tongue.

Nuts as it is that he’s wound up spending the better part of the last week huddled in various inconspicuous corners with this bloke, he doesn’t know if Krum’s up for it yet.

“Boys?”

The silvery mane shielding her from view is shaken aside, revealing the sleepy face Fleur Delacour.

“Ve slept?” she says, surprised, and fuck, does _everyone_ but Ron just sound angelic in the morning, because it’s not fair and honestly he feels more than a little betrayed because of it.

“Yeah,” Ron says, trying his best not to stare at her.

All week, he has been trying his best not to stare at her, and he thinks he’s getting pretty decent at it.

Besides, turns out, he’s much better at not making an ass of himself in front of her this way.

Not that that matters.

Not that any of it matters, except what they’re doing here, what they’re looking for.

The reason he’s read more fucking books last night than he had all last year.

The reason he ever barged into the hospital wing to find them, Krum and Fleur, that day, a fucking _week_ ago: the one where Harry and Hermione disappeared with Professor Riddle, the one where Cedric Diggory disappeared altogether.

“Zis is ‘opeless,” Fleur says tiredly. “We ‘ave looked everywhere, and still, _nothing._ ”

 She narrows her eyes at Ron, accusing.

“Are you sure you ‘eard Professor Dumbledore correctly?”

She asks it, not for the first time.

“I’m sure,” Ron says at once, though he isn’t, really.

In fact, he’s beginning to be quite convinced he made it up all on his bloody own.

‘ _Horcruxes_ ’.

He hadn’t heard it before, not ever.

The way Dumbledore said it, though, made him feel like maybe he should have.

Said it, all hushed, like the way his parents talked about Harry, sometimes – the reason he lived with the Muggles.  

But it was _quiet,_ a whisper, and Ron barely made it out over the clanking of his own feet in the bloody staircase.

He doesn’t _think_ he made it up.

He’s shit-scared he has, because if that’s the truth –

If that’s the truth, he has _fuck all_.

Nothing to do to help them, or find them.

Without that word, they’re just gone, and he’s just here, and so yeah, he’s sure, because he has to be ‘sure’ or he’ll go bloody loopy.

That, and telling an exhausted Fleur Delacour that yeah, he’s got his doubts, would be borderline suicidal.

 “Horcruxes are real,” Krum says firmly. “I ‘ave heard of them.”

“Because you ‘eard zat your ‘Eadmaster _banned_ books about them,” Fleur says, exasperated. “If it eez banned at Durmstrang, it eez surely banned at ‘Ogwarts.”

At once, Krum is glowering at her.

“You do not ‘ave to help,” he says gruffly. “You are velcome to leave. But I cannot sit by while ‘Ermiown-ninny is not safe.”

“I never said I vant to leave,” Fleur says hotly. “’Arry saved my sister. Of course I vill help.”

Krum is here for Hermione, Fleur is here for Harry.

They are both here for Cedric.

It’s why Ron went to _them._

That, and they had to be Champions for more than just their good looks.

If anyone can figure this out, bar Hermione, it’s got to be the two of them.

Krum’s face softens.

“I apologise,” he murmurs, albeit stiffly. “Perhaps you are right about ze books.”

“Probably are. I’ve even looked in the restricted section,” Ron says, frustrated.

He nicked Harry’s cloak - not hard to find where he hides it, thank fuck, two nights ago.

He had fuck all to show for it, save for mental bloody scarring from that one book whose pages morphed into the image of his mother and shouted him out of the library.

It was a fucking miracle nobody heard.

Then again, Hogwarts has been uncomfortably empty, these past few days.

It isn’t that everyone knows what happened in the graveyard.

Nobody knows a bloody thing.

Dumbledore’s kept his lips sealed, save your something about a missing Champion – Cedric, not Harry.

He’s not said a word to anyone about Harry, never-mind You Know Who.

Ron doesn’t understand why.

Still, that hasn’t stopped the rumours.

Fuelled by Skeeter’s blasts, as ever, the _Prophet_ has waged a war on Hogwarts and the Tournament, and the story of the Hufflepuff boy who went into the maze and did not come out was whispered until it was shouted.

Seamus went home yesterday.

Dean the day before.

Ron saw Crabbe carrying Malfoy’s things down to the train this morning.

Makes sense that daddy would want his precious boy out of the debris. 

It is not that Hogwarts is closed.

Officially, it is open.

But gradually, parents have begun to take matters into their own hands.

Ron had to contend with an angry Howler in his determination to stay.

“There is something else we can try, perhaps,” Krum muses, brows furrowed.

He looks mildly constipated, which, to Ron, is a promising sign.

Not to be confused with his ‘manly brooding’ face, _this_ is the same expression Krum gets in a match, when he spots the Snitch, knows exactly how he’s going to get to it.

Ron leans in, expectant.

“No need to let us in on it, mate,” he says impatiently, when Krum continues to stare blankly past his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Krum says. He clears his throat. “Everybody knows zat my ‘Eadmaster was not always a good wizard. I believe zat he is now. If I ask him what  _Horcruxes are_ , he will tell me.”

Fleur pauses, eyes meeting Ron’s for a lingering moment.

There is uncertainty in them that he recognises- feels all too well himself.

“No offence,” Ron says hastily, “but if we were going to just _ask_ someone, it’d be Dumbledore. Y’know, famously defeated Grindelwald? Did _not_ famously get imprisoned for helping You Know Who kill a bunch of people?”

Krum’s nostrils flare warningly.

“No offence,” Ron repeats, weakly.

“I could ask Madam Maxime,” Fleur says. “But I cannot believe zat she would know of such a thing. The Madam avoids ze Dark Arts. She vill not even read of them.” She sniffs proudly. “Such iz ‘er commitment to ze Light.”

“Maxime knows nothing,” Krum growls. “And Professor Dumbledore hired zis man, zis _Professor Riddle_ , who has taken ‘Ermiown-ninny and ‘Arry Potter. He is also too clever. He will lie to us if he wants to, and we cannot trick him.” He shakes his head. “No. We do not ask them. We ask Karkaroff.”

“What, ‘cause he won’t lie to us?” Ron says, incredulous.

“Because,” Krum says, voice suddenly very quiet and very heavy, “Professor Karkaroff made this _veritaserum_ himself. It iz quite effective.”

Lifting aside the thick fur that covers his torso, he lays a single finger over his shirt-pocket, where a distinctly vial-shaped object protrudes through the material.

He does not say anything else.

He does not have to.

Ron swallows.

“You carry truth potion?” Fleur says, eyes wide. “Why?”

“Quidditch is ze best game in the world,” Krum says, an odd edge to his voice. It is almost bitter. “With it comes a certain amount of – danger, I will say. Zere are those who may wish to ‘arm me; ‘old me ransom for money, and so on. It ‘as ‘appened before, to others, on ze national team. Karkaroff wanted me to be safe at school. He made zis potion for me, so zat if I suspect ‘zat somebody wishes me harm, I can discover it, before it is too late.”

“Blimey,” Ron murmurs. “That’s- well, that’s decent of him, isn’t it?”

Decent, and he doesn’t like it.

Karkaroff was much easier to deal with when he was just a Death Eater.

‘Course, Dumbledore was much easier to deal with when he was just the Good Wizard on the back of every Chocolate Frog he ever opened as a kid, too.

“I ‘eard about zat,” Fleur says softly. “Ze death threats. I think it is truly ‘orrible. My grandmother was ze same. She was a famous dancer. She won many competitions, because of ‘er beauty and grace. People became jealous, angry. Ze awful messages that she received- it was cruel.”

Ron feels momentarily, and admittedly stupidly, jealous that nobody’s ever tried to kill him for being too good at something.

“I know what you mean,” he lies.

“’Ow do you propose we give ‘zis potion to Karkaroff without him realising it?” Fleur says, all business.

 Her eyes return to Krum.

“It will be easy,” he says shortly. “He trusts me, very much. I bring him drinks often.”

Ron hesitates, a nagging feeling tugging at his chest.

“I dunno,” he says uneasily. “I mean, it seems pretty wrong. You know, drugging a man with his own potion and all.”

“You were ze one saying zat he was nothing but a Dark Wizard,” Krum says, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t like zis idea either, Ronaldo. But iz it not the best way to make sure zat we receive accurate information about ‘ _Horcruxes’_?”   

“Well, yeah,” Ron admits.

But a Hermione-like voice in his head is scolding him about ethics, now, and it won’t shut up.

“But I didn’t know all that about how much he cares ‘bout you.”

“What are you suggesting?” Fleur says. “More books?”

“Nah, that’s a dead end,” Ron says at once. “Also, reading is bloody exhausting and I don’t know how Hermione does it for _fun._ ”

“Zen what?” Fleur demands.

Krum, too, is looking at him now, waiting.

They both are.

Waiting for _him_ to tell them the plan.

There really is a first fucking time for everything.

“You said if you ask, Karkaroff will tell you,” he says, hoping he sounds a load more confident than he feels. “I say let’s give that a shot. If his answer smells like Thestral shit, then we give him the _veritaserum_.”

They’re going to laugh him off.

They’re going to tell him the real plan, the better one.

He knows it.

Merlin, he hopes it.

But Krum and Fleur only nod.

Krum’s mouth tugs up at the edges.

It’s the closest thing to a smile he gets these days.

“Okay.”

* * *

 

_Lord Voldemort, nested in the faded leather of the chair in the centre of the room, is an assault to the senses._

_It is more than the eerie, grey limbs, hanging useless from his body; not_ only _the unusual bulge of his eyes, the impossibly small mouth that only ever seems to open when he is hissing something to the great python that seems to come and go as she pleases – Nagini, she is called, Tom has checked._

_Yes, it is more._

_Because there is also something perfectly unsettling about the odour that seems to cling fast to him._

_Tom can_ taste _it, if he stands close enough, though he rather tries not to._

_It isn’t a particularly pleasant scent._

_Truth be told, it reminds him of something dead._

_Tom smiles tightly, even as it grows all the more unbearable, the closer he edges toward his Lord._

_His hands are crossed, polite, behind his back, as though it is a King upon a magnificent throne that he approaches._

_A King, and not this broken_ thing _._

_“What is it, boy?” Voldemort says sharply, though still, he fails to dignify Tom with so much as a glance._

_If Tom is irritated, he makes a point not to show it._

_“My Lord,” he inclines his head, though he stops short of bowing._

_Lord Voldemort notices._

_The lines that define those alien features of his deepen._

_“You want something,” he says accusingly._

_It is not a question._

_Tom’s smile does not waver._

_“Ah, but am I not you myself, my Lord?” he says pleasantly. “Do I not only want what you yourself do?”_

_“That, I do not know.”_

_At last, Voldemort sees fit to meet his eyes._

_The older man’s are dangerously narrow._

_“What do you want, boy?”_

_He does not sound angry._

_He does not sound angry, but Tom has learned that this does not mean he isn’t a fucking storm of fury at this precise moment._

_He will have to tread carefully, of course, he knew he would._

_Still, he is confident._

_After all, Lord Voldemort is not in a position to say no._

_Tom only needs to_ play _at asking permission._

_“Why, I want Harry Potter in your cauldron, of course,” he says amicably. “I want to deliver him to you. I want you to rise again; be formidable again. I want to punish those who have forsaken you, and I want to show the world why it was a mistake to ever coax itself into comfort with the fictitious belief that the Dark Lord could ever really be gone.”_

_Lord Voldemort’s eyes are very bright._

_Of course they are, because Tom is telling him everything that he wants to hear._

_Of course they are, because he bloody well means it._

_“At a price,” Voldemort murmurs icily. “You ought not forget how easily I may see inside your mind, young one.”_

_Tom swallows, feels his mouth falter._

_He does not let the smile drop._

_“And it is no taxing task to see inside yours,” he says simply. “It seems you know what I want. Are you going to tell me whether you will indulge me? Or shall I simply take the answer from you?”_

_Voldemort exhales sharply, and his entire form, frail, weak, as it is, looks to shudder._

_“Your threats are amusing,” he says coldly. “Albeit entirely unnecessary. If you bring me Harry Potter, boy, I will allow you to have the Locket. I will allow you to destroy it. I will give you my word that I will not seek to contain you within the confines of an object again.”_

_Tom closes his eyes, if only for a moment._

_Relief, he discovers, is a decidedly warm feeling, and he is not averse to it in the slightest._

_“You have my gratitude, My Lord.”_

_He is not smiling anymore._

_He has no need for it._

_Smiles are for other people: are for false reassurances, for promises you never mean to keep, but that must be vehemently believed._

_Tom finds he rarely smiles in the event of a victory._

_His satisfaction, it is something so very internal, after all; meant for him and him alone._

_“But of course,” Lord Voldemort says._

_He is smiling now._

_Lord Voldemort, that is._

_Smiling._

_Tom cannot think why._

_“You are me, after all.”_

* * *

 

Tom jolts awake in tangled sheets and a foul mood, courtesy, yet again, of the dream, the _memory_ , that has taken to mocking him in the night.

Tiresome, though, as it is, it has its uses.

That _fury,_ the knowledge that he was deceived by the snake he called his Lord, feels new, now, _fresh,_ and that is good.

That means that he will do this right.

That means that he will not lose.

 

It is dark, still, in the Granger’s guest room.

The only hint at the day outside is a faint line of orange beaming from the under the door.

The only sound punctuating the quiet is the obnoxious snoring erupting from Potter’s gaping mouth in the bed over, and, if he strains, the gentle clink of a tea-cup finding its place on a saucer in the kitchen.

Mrs Granger, taking her morning tea before she leaves for work.

She is humming a melody foreign to Tom about ‘working nine ‘til five’ under her breath, though why she feels compelled to sing about the impending eight hours she will spend looking inside the unsanitary mouths of strangers, he hasn’t the faintest.

He’d rather put a wand to his neck, should he find himself in her position.  

He supposes, though, that it might be considered somewhat admirable: the vigour with which she approaches the grimly mundane.

He supposes that he ought not be surprised at her behaviour in the slightest, having spent the better part of the year observing her daughter conduct herself in much the same way.

Of course, Defence Against the Dark Arts is decidedly more deserving of enthusiasm than teeth, but to each their own.

Hermione is not awake yet.

He would hear her, otherwise.

Hear the hum of the upstairs shower, the steady creak of the floorboards as she moved.

She would come downstairs, next, something sweet, like lavender, following her to the kitchen to mimic her mother’s administrations with the tea.

That is when she would come to him.

Well, to his room anyway – his and Harry’s- and she would bring them tea, the two of them, never-mind the fact that Potter was always asleep and his would be cold long before he had the conscious capacity to drink it.

She adds milk but no sugar.

The first time, he had contemplated telling her that she was sweet enough, to bring it to them.

He banished the thought at once with a cocktail of horror and befuddlement, cheeks unpleasantly and unfamiliarly heated because fuck, it was something Abraxas would say to whatever woman happened to have the misfortune of earning his affections that month. 

He should not be surprised that she has not yet risen.

Yesterday’s lesson was rather taxing for the pair of them, after all.

He has wanted to duel her for some time.

Potter as well, of course, if only to show for himself how fucking easy it would be, if Voldemort could reign in that ludicrous temper of his for a moment, to best him without even having to resort to non-verbals.

But he had wanted, badly, to duel _her._

Her mind works beautifully under pressure, he knows that; he has seen it.

How might it tick, hum, dance, faced with _him._

And so yesterday, in the Granger’s mercifully wide basement, he did.

 

He was, after all, preparing them for a war with Lord Voldemort.

He was, after all, training soldiers for an army.

“ _Deprimo,”_ he had said, in the beginning, and Hermione had scrambled as the floorboards came apart beneath her feet, shattered –

“ _Reparo!”_ she cried out, as he had counted on her doing, and even as the wood beneath knitted itself back together, Tom flicked his wand squarely in her direction.

“ _Incarcerous,”_ he murmured, and true to his will, black cords materialised, wound themselves tight around her, twisting and tugging, and she was flustered, now-

“ _Levicorpus!”_ she said, wand trained at him, and he did not expect it, because Merlin, what was she thinking, not dispensing with the ropes first?

He darted aside, the spell bouncing off the wall behind him with a sharp crack.

“ _Fiendfyre!”_ she was choking it out, this time, wand at the ropes.

Creative.

But then, he had known that she would be.

The ropes were ignited not a moment too soon.

When Hermione stumbled backward, she was coughing desperately.

“ _Stupefy_!” he tried, not affording her even a moment’s recovery, but still, she was ready.

“ _Protego,”_ she croaked, and it was not much, but it was enough.

Turning his attention, then, to the ropes, burning on the ground, his lip drew up, inspiration striking.

He opted to take a leaf out of her own book.

“ _Oppugno.”_

The flaming ropes rose, then, flew towards her, the air hissing as it passed through –

Her eyes were wide, mouth open, as though to scream.

She dove forward even as he was raising his wand to save her himself, elbows colliding hard with the floor, and she hissed, face contorting from the pain.

Tom had hesitated, then.

Had paused, wand hanging limp in his fingers.

She _glowered_ at him.

“Don’t,” she snapped, voice so saturated with contempt, _still,_ he tightened his jaw. “Don’t stop. You Know Who wouldn’t.”

He surveyed her, then, writhing on the ground, teeth grit.

She had practiced Unforgiveables the previous day. Performing _imperio_ , that is.

She was appalling at it, still, much to her shame, given Potter was becoming quite competent.

He had not subjected her to it.

Not yet.

His fingers twitched.

 _Crucio,_ they could cast, but he was rather averse to that idea.

Unnecessary, he thought.

Besides, she wasn’t an idiot.

She knew that _crucio_ meant torture, that _imperio_ meant control.

It seemed needless that she should know what it feels like.

A waste of his time, and his time was far too valuable to allow for any fruitless expenditure.

He had told her as much more times than ought to have been necessary, in the past days.

Hermione Granger, ever contrary, disagreed.

Fervently.

“Do it,” she had said, had _demanded_ of him. “He would, and you’re him, aren’t you? So do it. I’m asking you to, don’t you understand? I need you to do it.”

_You’re him._

She had not let it go.

He suspects that she will not, anytime soon.

Perhaps anytime at all.

_You’re him._

She knows that it bothers him.

She knows that he does not entirely comprehend why.

She _uses_ it, taunts him with it, like it is some sword she might wave in his face.

Ignoring her, he sent a _stupefy_ hurtling her way, not bothering with the word.  

“ _Protego!”_ she said, eyes bright, _furious,_ and she is on her knees, now, head tilted toward him and lips too soft- “ _Do it_.”

Merlin, the way she _said_ it-

The way she fucking _looked_ at him when she did-

She _wanted_ it.

Was _begging_ him for it.

And he would be lying if he suggested that it did not affect him in the slightest.

Lying, if he suggested that he had not imagined that she might beg him for something - granted, not _this_ , just _him_ – before.

Perhaps once, at Hogwarts, when he was Professor Riddle, but only _once_.

Only at night-time, when he was entirely alone and sleep was evasive; and _after_ , he was ashamed and indifferent, and so it hardly mattered.

Perhaps, though, it was a handful of times.

Perhaps altogether too many.

She would say _please._

She would say _thank you._

Sometimes, she would call him _Sir._

Hermione Granger never forgot her manners, and least of all in his imaginations.

He would be lying if he were to suggest that his heart did not stutter rather painfully, then.

That his –

 _Fuck,_ that his cock did not twitch in his trousers at how fucking reminiscent this is, she is, of the narrative that plays out in his head, on occasion.

But that was not what she wanted.

No, c _rucio,_ that was it; that was what she wanted him to say.

 _Crucio,_ and she wanted him to _look_ at her when he did, but-

_Expelliarmus._

That is what he thought instead.

The magic obeyed him.

With a harsh whistle, her wand was in his hands.

It was smaller than his, less polished.

Its core was still warm from how very _tightly_ her fingers had gripped at it.

He closed his eyes, a tremor coursing through him.

Hermione lay down, now, panting.

Her hair was splayed across the ground like a fucking halo.

The fierce scowl that she fixed him with then made her a wrathful angel indeed.  

“I need to know what it’s like. We both do. It’s your _fault_ that we need to know, and you don’t even have the decency to do it.”

“What can I say, Hermione?” he had forced a smile, then, a bloody _dazzling_ one, because he knew that she detested it so when he did. “I am _Him,_ after all.”

 

 

She had not said so much as a word to him at dinner, though she had been perfectly happy to blame the racket that had disturbed her father’s studies in the afternoon on him.

Walter, most conveniently, did not believe her.

The man was too entirely infatuated with the idea of Tom Smith.

Tom was rather in line to become the man’s apprentice, he should say. At least, he would be unsurprised by an offer.

“I insist, it really _was_ my fault, Walter,” he had said earnestly, while she glared daggers at the back of his head. “I cannot apologise enough. My manner of tutoring is rather practical – I do believe it is the best way to truly engage with a concept. I had not anticipated that it would be quite so disruptive to you.”

“Oh, nonsense!” the man had said. “Quite right you are – I never was able to learn much from the mere act of reading a book, though I know my wonderful wife and daughter are against me on that. I was hopeless at university, except in practical lessons. That, that was when I really understood what I was doing! You really have to experience something first-hand to be at all competent in dealing with it, I think.”

“Yes,” Hermione had said, tersely. “You really do.”

Her glare, as ever, was sour and pointed.

 

 

Now, beside him, Harry stirs.

Tom exhales dully, preparing himself for today’s bout of adolescent angst and tears.

 _Something something Cedric something something you promised something something how dare you something something, I am the Boy Who Lived,_ he will shout, the fucking second his eyes open. 

It is a tiresome song and dance that Tom doesn’t much care for.

What is more, it is quite extraordinarily detrimental to their progress; something that Potter seems to have a flimsy grasp on indeed.

The boy had just about spontaneously combusted when he learned, the day after the Vow scarred their hands and bound their consciences, that it would take a week until they were able to compel Malfoy to them and _Imperio_ him into rescuing Cedric.

 

“I thought this was all we needed!” Harry had said, waving the note of Malfoy’s that Hermione had rummaged up from her old school-things furiously.

It was from the second year, the parchment.

 Hermione had told them in a small voice.

On it, there was only one word.

_Mudblood._

Tom does not know what had possessed her to keep it.

She seems the sensible sort to throw such things out, be rid of them.

She only shrugged when Potter asked.

“This is the _first_ thing that we need, yes,” Tom had said, impatient, because really, had they not _covered_ this in fifth year? “Now, we need to distil Draco Malfoy’s essence from the parchment. Isolate it, so to speak, so that we can use it to identify his location. _That_ is when we summon him. The process, at best, takes a week.”

“ _Distil Malfoy’s essence_?” Potter said, nose crinkled.

“It sounds ridiculous,” Hermione had agreed, chewing her bottom lip. “But it’s the only way. I’ve read about it.”

“So Cedric’s supposed to- what? Just stay there? For a fucking week? That’s- fuck. He doesn’t even _know_ we’re coming to get him.”

His voice was thick, then.

Uneven.

Tom had looked away, mouth twisted in distaste.

He tries to avoid dealings with people who are crying, where possible.

Hermione only moved closer to the boy.

“He knows, Harry,” she said. “He knows you, and so he knows that you’re going back for him. _Of course_ he does.”

She sounded _sure._

Probably, she was.

Either way, Tom didn’t see why it made a difference.

How the pair of them are so perfectly capable of thinking about Cedric Diggory, and not about the broader and much more _important_ fact that Lord Voldemort has returned to power and Tom is the only wizard in the world who can best him, is beyond him.

 

 

“Cedric.”

There it is, now.

Although Potter is not awake yet, for his eyes remain firmly closed; face still have pressed into his pillow.

“I’m sorry,” he is murmuring, face contorting.

All in all, it is too gloomy for Tom to abide much longer.

Swinging his legs over and onto the cool of the floor, he makes for the door –

Mrs Granger is on the other side, fist half-raised to knock, a cup of tea steaming and balancing precariously on the palm of her other hand.

Her face is coloured with her surprise.

* * *

 

“Oh! Goodness, you startled me.”

“Mrs Granger,” Tom collects himself, making sure to meet her smile with a particularly bright one of his own. “Apologies, I did not realise you were here. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she says briskly, though her voice is hushed. “I was just wondering if you’d like some tea. I thought you might be awake. Good of you to let poor Harry rest.”

She glances over his shoulder, eyes falling on the boy. Her expression seems to soften.

“He’s not had the easiest lot in life, it seems. It must be terrible for him, now, with that You Know Who fellow back.”

She sighs, eyes flitting back to Tom’s.

“Of course, you would understand the way he must feel much better than I can. I can’t pretend to understand the experiences that you boys have had,” she sniffs. “I find it difficult, between the two of us, at times, to understand my daughter, even. Her world – _your_ world as well, I suppose – is by definition something that Walter and I cannot be a part of. You are all special.”

“Is that really what you thought?” Tom asks, and he really is asking, unable to help himself.

“What?” she says, mildly guarded.

“When you were told what Hermione is,” Tom says, tilting his head, the curiosity burning on his tongue. “You thought that she was special? Not- well, begging your pardon, but- you weren’t _bothered_ by the news?”

The woman’s tongue flicks over her lips, almost nervously, though her voice is steady, unequivocal, when she responds.

“It was a surprise, if that is what you mean. A hell of a surprise, and it turned our lives upside down. But was I _bothered_? No.” She shrugs simply. “Hermione can make things happen that our science, the science that I have spent my life studying as best I can, cannot explain. When she was little flowers would always grow around her. She did that. That was _her._ That was magic. Why on earth would that bother me?”

_Freak._

_Freak is what they called him._

_Freak._

_They screamed, they ran_ away _from him._

_They were right to run._

_Freak. Freak. Freak._

_Monster._

_They would regret it._

Tom’s mouth is open, only partly.

He does not quite know what he ought to say.

What will make her like him better, earn him her favour.

She does not –

She does not make s _ense._

She clears her throat, gesturing at the tea-cup, trembling in her hands.

“Thank you,” is all he says.

“You are most welcome,” is all she says back.  

* * *

 

 

Cedric is alive.

He does not know much else.

He does not know what day it is; whether it is night-time.

Whether he has been tortured and then healed  and then tortured again a handful of times, or a thousand.

He does not know whether Lucius Malfoy’s wife knows where he goes, when he comes to Cedric, though he hears her voice, sometimes, upstairs.

He does not think that she ever sounds happy.

He does not know if he imagined the tear glinting at Lucius Malfoy’s eye, the last time he did it.

If he imagined the dark circles that etch into the skin beneath his eyes.

He does not know if his father believes he is dead.

He does not know if Harry does.

He does not know if the Ministry has fallen, and You Know Who is their tyrant, now.

But he is alive.

Alive, and, at this precise moment, he is not alone.

The Elf is here, now.

The Elf with the torn teacosy and ears large enough to match its bulging eyes.

It brings him food and water, sometimes, though it never speaks.

House-Elves rarely do.

 _Good_ House-Elves, the kind that belong to families like the Malfoys.

His father had told him about them, though they’ve never had an Elf themselves.

His father never was one to shy away from work.

Told Cedric it was good for one’s character, humbling.

Still, it is a comfort, somehow, to hear its feet shift beneath it, hear the scrape of the bowl of soup it prods in his direction.

“What’s your name?” he had said, once.

The first time it had come.

The Elf had only stared at him, wide-eyed and frozen, before it disapparated.

Cedric still does not know whether it was because he looked as horrendous, as haunting, as he feared, or because everybody knows that you do not converse with House Elves.

Either way, he had startled it.

Cedric has not tried to speak to it since.

Perhaps that is why it is so inexplicably miraculous to him, impossible, when a tiny voice, squeaky, and high-pitched, sounds from behind him.

“You know Harry Potter, Sir?”

_Harry._

Cedric presses his palms into the concrete, gritting his teeth, and he turns to face the Elf, ignoring the spasm of pain that ripples through his back at the movement.

“Yes,” he says, voice terribly raw after days spent only screaming.

He winces.

“Do you- do you know Harry?”

He hears the hope in his own voice, and grimaces.

He ought to know better than to hope for anything, anymore.

The Elf’s eyes widen at an alarming rate.

“Oh, no, Sir,” it says earnestly. “Dobby has never met Harry Potter, Sir, Dobby should not even be asking, Sir. It is only that Dobby had heard such things, Sir, such things… _Bad Dobby_.”

Before Cedric can so much as blink, the Elf is on the ground, head grasped firm between gangly hands, and it is hammering it into the concrete floor.

“ _Bad Dobby!”_

“Hey!” Cedric says, utterly stunned, and the shock of it is enough, for a moment, to distract him from the pain.

Crawling to where the Elf sits, he wedges his own palm between its forehead, and the floor.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, spectacularly confused.

“Dobby must, Sir,” the Elf pants, eyes terribly foggy. “Dobby is not allowed to speak to prisoner, Sir. But Dobby had to know.”

“Not allowed-? Dobby,” Cedric says seriously, “Are you saying that-” He feels ill. “Do the _Malfoys_ make you do this?

Tearful, now, Dobby nods.

“Dobby heard that Sir saved Harry Potter,” he hiccups, blowing his nose on the hem of his teacosy.

Cedric is in no position to cast judgment on him for it.

“I- yes,” Cedric admits. “I did.”

Dobby’s eyes seem to have this infinite capacity to grow larger than they really ought to be capable of.

It is as though two moons shine on his face, now.

In the split of moment, the Elf’s features are _transformed_ by a toothy grin.

“Oh, bless you, Sir,” Dobby cries. “You are good wizard, Sir, you are, you are.”

“Dobby,” Cedric says, bewildered, but _comforted_ by something, by this utterly perplexing Elf, and he does not want to let go of it, “call me Cedric.”

Because he has not heard his own name in so long.

Because he is afraid he will forget it.

Because he would like, very much, to have a friend, here.

Dobby’s cheeks suck in sharply, mouth shaped like a perfect ‘O’ in disbelief.

“Sir Cedric?”

Cedric nearly smiles.

“Close enough.”

“- _There_ you are, you daft Elf,” somebody is saying.

With a noisy creak, the door leading down here opens.

Cedric starts, the nerves in his arms, legs, his everything, on _fire_ in anticipation, and he cannot help himself, he is already trembling, because _somebody is coming down the stairs_ , somebody is-

They stop moving.

When they speak again, it is weak, almost inaudible.

It is also immediately recognisable.

“Diggory?”

Cedric’s eyes shoot open, fixing on the boy on the stairs.

Hair meticulously parted and dressed smart in a black turtleneck jumper and boots that gleam on the steps, Draco Malfoy is frozen, pale, and staring at Cedric, the daft Elf, it seems, forgotten.

* * *

 

“What the hell is this?” Malfoy says, voice uneven, and Merlin, he didn’t _know,_ and Cedric feels a pang of something like pity, something like guilt, because this boy, who he has _seen_ taunt Harry, Xavier, over again on the school grounds, looks perfectly lost, now.

What must it mean, even, that he is here?

It cannot be Christmas, not _yet_.

“Malfoy,” Cedric croaks, though he’s absolutely no idea what he might say next.

“But you were,” Malfoy swallows, shaking his head. “You were gone. They never found you.” His hands ball to fists by his sides. “What are you doing in my cellar?” he demands.

Cedric blinks at him, incredulous, for a moment.

Then, slowly, invariably, he is laughing.

Malfoy watches on with a renewed anger.

“This funny to you, is it?” he says testily. “You’re- you’re trespassing is what you’re doing!”

“Master Malfoy cannot be here,” Dobby squeaks up from Cedric’s side. “Master Lucius says-”

“I don’t give a damn what my father says,” Malfoy snaps. “What is he doing here? Dobby, you tell me right now, or I’ll lock you in the oven. Bought time we got a new Elf, anyway.”

A tremor seems to erupt over the Elf now.

Cedric feels a pang of sympathy.

It seems they have more in common than he might have first thought, he and Dobby the House-Elf.

“Take it easy on Dobby,” he mumbles, too fatigued to command an authorative tone, but he has Malfoy’s attention all the same. “It’s not his fault.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Malfoy demands, gesturing weakly in Cedric’s general direction. “You’re all- you look all-”

He breaks off, eyes determinedly trained on the floor, now.

“I’m telling my father you’re here,” he says adamantly.

“Malfoy,” Cedric says, resignedly, apologetically, “your father knows I’m here.”

Malfoy blinks, confused.

“That doesn’t- you don’t understand,” he says, all but shouting, now. “If he knew, you wouldn’t be-”

“Malfoy,” Cedric says hesitantly, because Merlin, he really knows _nothing_ , and Cedric doesn’t want to be the one to change that.

“No,” the other boy says, quietly, this time, but firmly.

It breaks Cedric’s heart.

Draco Malfoy is marching briskly up the stairs again before he has the chance to tell him so.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione prods at the parchment that is levitating in her bedroom, suspended over a bubbling concoction that is saturating the air with an odour most sickeningly sweet.

She can still just make out the word ‘ _mudblood_ ’, though the ink is running, now.

She watches it fade with a detached sort of interest.

It’s a good thing she kept it after all.

She still doesn’t quite know why she did.

Given, though, that it is going to save Cedric’s life, she has decided that she doesn’t much care.

It is only a matter of hours now until it is finished, and for that, she is immeasurably glad.

She is afraid Harry could not take another day.

She is afraid, too, that Cedric could not, either.

 

A curt knock on the door lets her know that Tom is on the other side.

“Come in,” she murmurs, eyes trained, still, on the parchment.

She gives it another, impatient jab of her wand, even as he closes the door behind him.

She glances over her shoulder at him.

It is strange, seeing him in her father’s clothes.

His jumper is a pleasant sort of blue.

It almost makes it seem as though his eyes are of a similar shade, though of course, they are closer to black than any other colour.

His hair, too, is less perfectly groomed than it was at Hogwarts.

It suits him, she thinks, however unsettling it might be.

He looks less particularly crafted, less _designed._

More human.

He looks entirely un-threatening.

Kind, even.

Beautiful.

She feels, in this instant, unreasonably angry.

He should not be _allowed_ to look kind.

“It’s almost ready,” she says snappishly.

Tom’s smile touches his eyes.

“That’s excellent,” he says, undeterred, it seems, by her tone. “Precisely on schedule.”

“Precisely,” Hermione murmurs.

“Is something bothering you, Hermione?” he says, now, and there is this _note_ to his voice that is too close to genuine for her liking.

She sniffs, hugging her knees to her chest where she sits on the carpet, leaning further away from him.

“Were you talking to my mother, just now?”

Tom seems to hesitate, now, still frozen in the door-frame.

Almost clumsily, he takes a step inside; lowers himself to sit by her side, his legs crossed and his hands folded between them.

“Yes,” he says at last. “She came in with tea. I didn’t know that you were awake.”

“I heard your voices,” she mutters.

She does not say anything else for a moment; just watches the parchment, dripping, dripping-

“It bothers you,” he says, somewhat bitterly. “Doesn’t it?”

“Bothers me?”

Hermione almost laughs.

Almost laughs, because Merlin, how can he be _bitter_ about this?

“Tom- you-”

“Don’t,” he says tersely.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say I’m Him,” he says colourlessly. “Stop saying that I’m Him.”

He does not say please.

She doesn’t suppose that he ever will.

Hermione’s eyes flit over him.

His back is curved over, shoulders taut and hunched up near his ears.

He looks almost sad, which is preposterous.

He is not looking at her.

“Why?” she says coolly. “Does it bother _you_?”

The idea is rather amusing.

“Yes,” he says shortly.

Hermione opens her mouth-

Closes it.

She was not expecting that.

These days, she finds, she is perfectly unable to anticipate anything this man says or does, and it is infuriating.

“You know I can’t hurt your parents,” he says, _imploringly?,_ “why do you insist on feeling so fucking uncomfortable when I speak to them, still?”

“You can’t use _magic_ on them,” she corrects him. “But Merlin, Tom.” She throws up her hands, exasperated. “I know what you think of me, now. There’s really no point pretending.”

“What I-”

Tom clears his throat, suddenly, loudly.

When he speaks again, it is smooth, clipped.

 “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, but I’m sure you are sorely mistaken.”

Hermione scoffs.

“Don’t you dare pretend. Besides, I think the entire wizarding world knows.”

He furrows his brow, now, cheeks curiously pink.

“I don’t follow,” he says cautiously.

Frustrated, she stabs at the parchment once more with the tip of her wand, arching her brows.

“Let’s just say I know you’re very much in the Malfoy camp when it comes to your views about blood purity,” she says icily.

Tom seems to freeze and melt all at once, now.

The flush that has heated his cheeks drains.

His eyes are very dark.

“Oh,” he says. “That.”

“Yes, that,” Hermione says, irritated. “What on earth did you think I meant?”

Tom jerks his head, brows draw in.

“That hardly matters now, doesn’t it.”

“I suppose so,” she mutters. “In any case, that’s your answer, isn’t it? Excuse me for not being delighted about a Pure-Blood supremacist being so much as in the same room as my Muggle parents.”

She fastens her knees closer to her chest.

The moment stretches out, tense, distinctly uncomfortable.

“You have a problematic tendency to make assumptions,” Tom says at last. “I saw it in your essays. You imagine things as – static, for the most part. As though everything may be reduced to one fact, one core concept. Though your piece about dark wizards- about whether they can change- that was something of a surprise.”

Hermione shakes her head in disbelief.

“You’re lecturing me about my problematic characteristics,” she says slowly, “on the basis of essays that I wrote while you were _pretending to be my teacher_?”

“That is what I am doing, yes,” he says easily, and he is facing her now, eyes bright as they bear into her own.

She swallows.

“Don’t look so _appalled_ , Hermione. I was a good Professor and you know it. You were so fucking eager for my approval, after all, don’t you remember? And it was because I was _good_.”

He is close to her now.

Close, though she does not recall him shifting closer.

Close, and his mouth has this inviting _curve_ to it that sends her own trembling.

“Deny it,” he says, low in his throat, and his eyes are hooded, his hair falling over his forehead, and Hermione chokes, but –

But he is changing the subject.

Of course, he is changing the subject.

“Are _you_ trying to deny it?” Hermione clears her throat, blinks away from him. “That you’re a supremacist?”

Tom sighs, claps his hands across his thighs.

“Do I think that I would rather have magical blood than muggle blood? Yes,” he says matter-of-factly. “Do I think that witches and wizards are capable of doing more and better things than muggles are capable of doing? Yes. You can disagree with me, if you like. I am more than happy to show you why you’re wrong.”

“Do you advocate the slaughter of Muggles and Muggleborns?” she says heatedly, and her eyes are prickling, now, but how on earth could they not be, faced with- _this_?

Something like a grimace flashes across Tom’s features.

“Yes? Or no? It’s _really_ a simple question, Tom.”

She is almost whispering, though she does not know why.

Perhaps because, if the answer is ‘yes’, she wants to hear it quietly, gently.

“It’s a good deal more complex than that, Hermione,” he begins -

“Stop that,” she hisses. “ _Stop_ talking down to me. If you know more than me, it is because you have been _tutored_ by your older self. I know when things are complicated and when things are simple. This, Tom, this is _simple_.”

She is shaking now, shaking in her whole body.

She is –

_Afraid._

Not because she fears that he will hurt her, not physically.

Afraid in some other way that feels so very much _worse._

 

His hand falls to her knee.

His hand falls to her knee, and it feels warm, and like comfort, and she cannot stand it.

“No,” he says softly. “If you must reduce it to that, then the answer is ‘no’.”

Hermione closes her eyes, exhales deeply, and she is dizzy with relief –

She is also bewildered.

“But,” she shakes her head, “that doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” he arches an eyebrow. “You attribute things that Lord Voldemort has done to me. You attribute his motives to me. We are not the _same_ , Hermione. For example, one of us has kidnapped Cedric Diggory. The other has pledged to save him.”

“I still don’t understand,” she says.

Tom tilts his head, lips pursed as though he is thinking rather hard.

“I believe,” he says, “that a good deal of Muggles respond to Magic with fear. That fear invites hatred, of the most irrational kind. It invites blame, _condemnation_. They hunted us, once, as you would well know. The Muggles like that, and I believe, Hermione, that there are many of them, do not deserve the sympathy of any witch or wizard.” His face softens, though his voice remains stiff, stilted, somehow. “Your parents are not like those Muggles.”

Hermione is staring at him.

She cannot seem to help it.

It is as though if she simply looks at him for long enough, she might stand a chance at understanding precisely what is going through his head- precisely how much he means any of it.

“The Muggles at the orphanage,” she clears her throat, glancing for his response with caution, “were they like that?”

Tom’s face is curiously blank, now, and for a moment, she thinks he may be furious with her for discussing it- the orphanage.

The hand that has been resting on her knee slides to the carpet, dully.

“Yes,” is all he says.

Hermione does not say that she is sorry.

She _is_ , of course, but she suspects Tom Riddle will not much be comforted by it.

She is, of course, but that hardly changes much, in the scheme of things.

She turns back to the potion, bubbling furiously beneath the parchment.

“Is Cedric being tortured?” she asks with a clinical kind of distance.

Tom, still tense beside her, inhales sharply.

“Yes.”

Hermione closes her eyes, some sharp brand of pain striking her chest.

But she nods.

She cannot, in earnest, have expected anything different.

“Is he ever going to recover?” she murmurs, not looking at him. “After we get him out, I mean?”

“It will depend,” Tom says matter-of-factly, “on the frequency and severity of the torture. Of course, much of it will come down to his own physical and mental fortitude.”

Some strangled noise escapes Hermione’s lips.

Tom’s eyes dart to hers, his lips barely parted.

Slowly, deliberately, the corner of his mouth turns up.

A smile.

Not a smirk, not a grin: only a smile.

A sad one.

A kind one.

Understated and small and he cannot be pretending, now.

“You don’t like lies, Hermione.” He sounds almost wistful, now. “It is a pity. I could have told you that he is going to be alright, otherwise. People find that sort of thing comforting, don’t they?”

 _Nobody stands at chance at killing Potter in the Tournament  tomorrow. I give you my_ word.

He had said that to her, Before.

And it had been all that she wanted to hear.

It had enveloped her in security, soothed her anxious mind, and she had believed in it entirely.

She flinches.

“I don’t think I do,” she says. “Not anymore.”

Tom does not say anything back.

They only sit, now, watching the parchment and the potion.

They only sit, now, waiting on her bedroom floor.

 

* * *

 

 

Lucius Malfoy has not come today.

Lucius Malfoy has not come, and Draco has not come back.

Cedric supposes he couldn’t blame him if he never did.

Cedric is alive, and he has not been tortured today, and yet somehow, being here, _alone,_ feels worse.

The ‘not knowing’ feels worse.

He wonders if Harry is alone.

If he really got to Hogwarts okay, or if You Know Who found him.

Thinking about him, too, brings its own kind of bitter pain.

Cedric will never see him again.

He is beginning to accept it.

He wonders –

Merlin, he wonders if he _mattered._

To Harry, that is.

Wonders if he has got it all wrong: if he’s just the arrogant seventh year who asked Harry to the Ball, and he’d only said yes to be polite, nothing more. If Harry was just a decent person who wanted the competition to be fair, equal.

If it had never been anything more than that.

If Harry cares, really _cares,_ that he is gone.

Cares in the way that you can feel; the way that claws at your mind and your heart and makes your stomach sick and blocks out anything and everything else.

“Cedric Sir.”

Dobby says it at the precise moment he apparates loudly into the room, teacosy coal-black and swinging.

Cedric twitches on the floor, startled.

He scrambles to his knees.  

“Dobby,” he says, relieved. “You’re alright.”

“Cedric Sir was – worried about _Dobby_?” Dobby says, incredulous and beaming in his rags, and Cedric would wager that it is the happiest and the saddest sight this miserable cellar has ever seen.

“’Course,” he says gently. “It isn’t alright, Dobby, the way that they treat you.”

“’Tis not uncommon for a House-Elf to be treated like Dobby, Sir,” Dobby says sadly. “But to treat a wizard the way Cedric Sir is, here-” Dobby shudders. “Dobby cannot stand it, Cedric Sir.”

“Dobby,” Cedric frowns, “I’m glad you’re here, but, is it safe for you?”

“Master Malfoy, Sir, Master Draco, asked Dobby to come,” Dobby says quickly, and Cedric’s eyes widen-

Dobby stops.

“Dobby shouldn’t have said that,” he says, crossly. “ _Bad Dobby,_ wasn’t supposed to say-”

He takes a step back, prepares to hurl himself at the stone wall –

Cedric grips the Elf’s arm.

“Dobby,” he says desperately, “don’t. Please, Dobby. Tell me. What did Malfoy say?”

“Not say, Cedric Sir,” Dobby says. “Bring.”

Before Cedric can ask what he meant, Dobby is snapping his fingers together.

With a splendid crack, something materialises, hovering before him.

A sponge cake, neatly presented on a china plate, complete with an intricately carved teaspoon.

“Dobby must clean up, when Cedric Sir is done,” Dobby is saying, but Cedric can’t say whether he stops there or not.

He stares at the cake.

The cake, it seems, that Draco Malfoy has sent for him.

And it is perplexing and entirely unanticipated, and, if Xavier is to be believed, wildly out of character.

Yet here it is, suspended in this cold air.

“Thank you,” Cedric whispers.

It is all he can quite manage to think at this moment.

“Dobby, you tell Malfoy thank you. Please.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! 
> 
> I am not dead!! 
> 
> I cannot apologise enough for the delay - things have been a bit Not Great on my end, but I am glad to be back with a new chapter.  
> It's been a while since I've written, so I do hope the writing doesn't feel too stale, or different from previous chapters. (I also hope there aren't too many minor spelling or gramatical errors: please forgive if there are a couple - though also don't hesitate to point them out so I can fix them when I have time!). I want to reitterate that I am by no means abandoning Renatus - though at the moment, unfortunately, I can't guarantee weekly/fortnightly updates as before. 
> 
> Thank you so much, as always, for the kudos, comments, and the reads! Your extraordinary commitment to this story is truly what motivates me to come back and keep writing - I am so happy to hear that people enjoy reading it just as much as I enjoy writing it :). 
> 
> I want to say a particular thank you to those who have joined us here recently. This fic is a bit of a monster of a read at the moment, and committing to reading anything this long, especially when it is a work in progress, is no small thing. I am very happy to have you on board! Your time is valuable, and I sincerely thank you for spending some of it following the Harry Potter gang along on this particular adventure.
> 
> I would love to hear what you think about the chapter, any and all parts of it!! I am very uncertain about most of them!! 
> 
> Until next time, take care :)
> 
> OH, I nearly forgot: Renatus has somehow wound up nominated in some of the categories of the 'Beyond the Book Fanfiction Nook Summer Awards 2018', which is super exciting and makes me incredibly happy!!?  
> If you fancy chucking it a vote, you can do so at this link: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSf9h-zaH8sTTErFV0GU_R1bCLNUDW-HszRzcuHJ7Ikk3lCZbA/viewform?usp=sf_link .


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Time: Professor Dumbledore, a moment too late, overcomes a powerful memory potion, and now recognises precisely who Tom Riddle really is, and, together with Severus Snape, has been concocting a plan in light of this. Cedric Diggory remains imprisoned at the Malfoy Manor, a fact which Draco Malfoy learned, quite accidentally, upon returning home early from Hogwarts. At the Manor, Cedric has made the acquaintance of Dobby, who, curiously, delivered him a slice of cake at Draco’s request. Elsewhere, Tom, Harry, and Hermione are brewing a potion that will allow them to track Draco. This will allow them, so the plan goes, to kidnap him, and have him rescue Cedric from under his father’s nose. Tom Riddle is becoming increasingly concerned with Hermione Granger’s good opinion.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore nudges his spectacles upward a smidge from where they hover, precarious, at the very brink of his nose.

He blinks at the rather motley crew assembled around him, tense in their seats.

They are, all of them, frightfully pale.

Albus cannot begrudge them for it.

It is a natural consequence of the pervasive grey that dulls the skies, the cold that has taken a firm grip over all of England of late.

It is a natural consequence, too, of the fear that has, no doubt, poisoned their nights as it has his own, in the past seven days.

And oh, how harshly it has poisoned his own.

Molly Weasley looks especially gaunt, apron tight around her middle, hair unruly in the damp of the room.

Her husband, too, appears worse for wear, the laughter lines around his mouth a peculiar sight, paired with the uncharacteristically grim set of his jaw.

Then there is Remus Lupin, his cheeks marred by the usual assortment of scars, eyes dark, earnest. Beside him, Tonks – singularly gifted, of course, and a hoot, in ordinary circumstances, sits with her hands clasped together in her lap, so tightly that her fingers have turned white.

Hagrid is peculiarly quiet, eyes almost closed.

“Out with it, Albus,” Moody grunts from the far end of the table.

He has unceremoniously wrenched his glass eye out of its socket, and is heartily engaged in the rather counterproductive process of polishing it with the grotty end of his jacket.  

“Patience.”

It is Severus, curt, though not entirely unwelcome.

He is positioned at Albus’ side – less for comfort and more for the purposes of ensuring that Albus does not disclose anything that he ought not to.

That is, of course, why he has arranged this gathering: to tell the Order of the Phoenix what they need to know, and nothing more.

Certainly, they needn’t know of the matters that are most responsible for Albus’ own anguish; of the impossible and entirely dangerous young man whose potion has bewitched him since August; has fogged his mind and robbed his memory and opened Hogwarts in its entireity to the cruellest kind of enchantment.

It was, of course, enchanted.

Mesmerised – infatuated.

Tom Riddle had always rather had that effect.

But Molly, Arthur, Sirius, they need never trouble themselves with that name.

Or, if not never, then not _yet_.

His deepest wish, of course, is to refrain from telling them any of this unpleasant business at all.

But that would be self-indulgent; would soothe his own mind, and not theirs, and so Albus does not give it any further contemplation.

That does not mean that it is not a pity.

After all, clustered close around this unremarkable table in the dim light of Sirius Black’s hidden home, they do not _look_ like an army.

Do not look like soldiers awaiting instruction.

He thinks of Lily, of James, of the Longbottoms; adolescents.

 He supposes that the Order never did.

He supposes that the Order of the Phoenix was only ever _this_ : this modest cluster of extraordinary, ordinary people, meeting in musty rooms where they will not be overheard and pledging to do all that they can to fight the Dark.

Not because they expect to win.

Not because they long for the purpose, the clarity, that only a war could truly offer them.

Simply because if they do not, their souls will not ever allow them to sleep soundly - even when it ends.

“I think we’ve been patient enough,” Sirius says coolly, leaning forward.

His arms are folded and legs are crossed where he rests against a wall peppered with the Black family crest, over again.

He jerks his head.

“Come on, Dumbledore,” he says roughly. “You’ve got some explaining to do. I for one would be interested to hear what Igor Karkaroff was doing at Hogwarts all year – and I’m not the only one. Isn’t that right, Arthur? Molly?”

Arthur Weasley’s cheeks redden, though the man does not protest.

“I think they’ve a right to know why a man like that has been permitted near their children, don’t you?”

Albus bows his head.

“You are angry, Sirius. It is understandable.”

“It is _inefficient_ ,” Severus interjects, his words slow as they are damning. “The Dark Lord has returned, Black. Are your priorities truly so warped that you would insist upon discussing Igor Karkaroff at a time such as this?”

Sirius barks with cold laughter.

“Is that any way to speak to your host, _Snivellus_?”

Severus’ eyes tighten, his arms coiled and his fingers gripping firm into the table’s ledge, as though bracing himself for a duel.

He is, unfortunately, and yet mercifully all at once, ever caught in the emotional state he found himself in, in his own schooldays.

“You’re awfully glib, Black,” he hisses. “One would have thought that Azkaban might have changed that.”

“So sorry to disappoint,” Sirius says coolly, but Severus, it seems, is not finished.

“I wonder, would you still see fit to insult me after another round with the Dementors?”

His eyes glint.

“They are so _eager_ for a reunion, after all. Haven’t you seen it? It’s all _over_ the papers.”  

Sirius whitens.

“Severus-” Lupin begins, reproachful-

“Shut it, the pair of you,” Mad-Eye barks. “The Dark Lord has returned, has he now, Snape?”

Severus’ mouth fastens into a hard line, something like guilt flashing, ever briefly, in his eyes.

“Care to confirm that, Albus?” Mad-Eye is not looking at Albus, or anyone, for that matter.

“Ron says it’s true,” Molly Weasley murmurs.

“It’s one thing coming from your son,” Mad-Eye says snappishly, “I want to hear it from _him_.”

In one harsh motion, he jams his eye back into place.

When he blinks, both eyes flash at Albus.

A hush falls across the room, now –

The kind that one tends to feel, like a blow.

Hagrid looks rather like he might cry.

“I’m afraid Ron is correct, Molly,” Albus says, gently, for awful news must be _always_ delivered gently as one can manage. “Lord Voldemort has returned.”

“Blimey,” Hagrid says, and everything about him is drained, now.

Colourless.

It is sensible, of course.

He remembers what it was like, before.

They all do.

And so for a lingering, ugly, cluster of moments, nobody says anything.

Then,

“What else do you know?”

It is Mad-Eye, jaw tight and all-business, as ever.

Albus nods gravely.

“Quite little, for certain. We have reason, however, to believe that he has his own form. Previously, as you will all recall, he survived only through parasitic reliance on another’s body. He has overcome that barrier, now. We also have reason to believe that he has alerted his Death Eaters to his survival, and retains the loyalty of most.”

“’Course he bloody well does,” Moody growls.

“Merlin,” Tonks whispers. “How’d he manage that? Coming back, I mean. It should be impossible.”

“That, I am afraid we cannot answer.”

It is the first lie that Albus has told them tonight.

Regrettable, but essential.

They cannot know of the ritual, and much less of Harry Potter’s role in it.

They shudder, of course; squirm in their seats.

But they do not question it.

They do not question him.

“Never-mind that,” Sirius says heatedly. “Where’s my godson, Dumbledore?”

_Where’s my godson._

Here it is, then.

The question that demands the second lie – and it is not a white one.

“And Hermione? Ron’s worried sick about the pair of them,” Molly puts in, and her lip is trembling but her voice is not, and something in Albus’ chest aches. “He won’t come home without them, Dumbledore. Not to mention that poor boy who went missing in that maze.”

“Cedric Diggory,” Arthur supplies. “We’ve seen the _Prophet,_ Dumbledore. What’s going on? You don’t think He- You Know Who-”

He does not finish.

He does not need to.

“He _can’t_ ‘ave Harry,” Hagrid says thickly, and a little too loudly.

“And there was something else, Dumbledore,” Molly shakes her head, a frown playing at her forehead. “Something Ron said about a teacher, taking them away. He says that you were there. That you knew him, Headmaster.”

Albus’s eyes flicker, invariably, to meet Severus’.

The man offers a nod, perfectly inconspicuous.

“Your son has experienced much distress,” he says, not unkindly.  “I must apologise for it. I led him to misunderstand, Molly. I feared it was necessary,  to protect Harry. You see, the _Prophet_ is, I am afraid, correct about one thing.”

He inhales a little too deeply for comfort, but it cannot be helped.

“Cedric Diggory disappeared during the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Knowing this, and then, knowing of Lord Voldemort’s return, I was no longer confident that Hogwarts was strong enough to keep Harry safe. I had a trusted Professor, who I am afraid I cannot name, escort him elsewhere – somewhere I am hopeful he may never be found by Lord Voldemort. Miss Granger, naturally, insisted upon accompanying him.”

“Bollocks,” Sirius cuts in, eyes narrow. “You want a safehouse for Harry?” he spreads his arms wide. “We’re in one, Dumbledore. He should have been sent straight to me.” 

“It’s almost as if residing with a wanted criminal might render Potter at greater risk of being found,” Snape says dryly.

“I am afraid Severus is right, Sirius,” Albus says, apologetic – because, of course, he is; more deeply than Sirius can know at this precise minute. “I could not risk sending Harry here. You are, yourself, sought after enough. I did not wish to subject either of you to further scrutiny.”

“That may well be, Dumbledore. But who among Hogwarts staff can be trusted more than any of us here tonight?” Lupin says mildly. “I apologise, Albus – I trust your judgment, of course. Only, who _did_ you have escort Potter? And where?”

“You know I cannot say, Remus. For your own safety as much as for Harry’s.”

“That isn’t at all what Ron’s told us,” Molly says, though she is not accusing, as Sirius is – only perplexed.

“If Ronald knew that his friends were safe, I feared he might inadvertently subject himself, and Harry and Hermione, to danger,” Albus says solemnly. “We don’t know who among us at Hogwarts may be trusted, and who may find themselves reporting back to Lord Voldemort- willingly, or under the influence of Dark Magic. But undoubtedly, it is perfectly common knowledge that Ron is among Harry’s dearest friends. We could not risk telling him the truth, Molly, lest it get back to the wrong hands.”

“Do you mean to say,” Sirius says quietly, “that you have allowed this boy to believe his friends to have been kidnapped by an agent of You Know Who?”

He is –

Furious.

Righteously so, perhaps.

Sirius Black cares about _people_ more than he does ideas, broad principles.

It is the reason he is invaluable, as part of the Order.

It is also the reason he is something of a danger to it, as well.

“We have to tell him, Dumbledore,” Arthur says desperately. “Merlin, if Harry and Hermione are safe, Ron needs to know!”

“He deserves to,” Lupin says, almost apologetically.  

“Come off it, Dumbledore,” Tonks frowns, shakes the -now quite alarmingly _fiery_ \- hair from her eyes.  “You must know- this is too cruel.”

“Ron Weasley’s comfort is not more important than Potter’s survival – nor the Dark Lord’s defeat,” Severus says crisply. “Which, might I remind you all, is the subject of this…gathering.”

“What do you propose Molly and Arthur tell their son, then, Snivellus?” Sirius says hotly. “Because they have to tell him _something_. The boy is telling him he’s not coming back from Hogwarts until he finds where Harry and Hermione have been taken – not unreasonably, I think.”

“Well, if it’s not unreasonable to the escaped convict,” Severus mutters.

“I understand,” Albus cuts in, before Sirius can retort. “Molly, Arthur, I will see to it personally that Ronald safely makes his way to you from Hogwarts. In the interim, I’ve arranged for a particularly accomplished Auror to set up protection wards around your home, as a precautionary measure.”

 “I’ll go back fer Ron, Dumbledore. Get him out, safe and sound,” Hagrid offers.

“Nonsense,” Severus says lazily. “I will see to it.”

“I would appreciate that Hagrid, thank you,” Molly says rather pointedly in any case.

“In any case,” Albus clears his throat mildly. “Lord Voldemort’s return cannot be underestimated. We must be proactive. We know little about where he is, what his movements may be – but we can anticipate that he will soon take steps to build his army again. Moody, you still have connections within the ex-Aurors’ circles?”

“’Course.”

“Excellent. See to it, won’t you, that they are vetted – we must be sure where their allegiances lie, before we ask that they assist us any further. Do be sure to tell me of any suspicious behaviour – any disappearances, and so on.” He casts his eyes, now, upon Remus. “Now, I understand that you’ve somewhat distanced yourself from others effected by lycanthropy?”

Under the table, Tonks places a gentle hand on Remus’ knee.

“I have,” he says cautiously.

“I am going to ask you, Remus, to change that,” Albus says gently, and the other man’s face, marred as it is by scattered scars, darkens. “I know this is no small request. Believe me, I would not ask it of you, were we not at the brink of war.”

_War._

Albus had liked the word, once.

The connotations had impressed him, overwhelmed him, when he was rather young and rather uninspired by the dull content of his classroom lessons at Hogwarts.

War promised something rather exhilarating; something to fight for, and somebody to fight.

The stark contrast between one side and the other, the heroism, the courage, the feats of great power, great kindness- it was like something out of a story, and so he had liked it.

This was, of course, well before he had seen it.

Now, it only tastes rotten on his tongue.

“Righ’ then,” Hagrid says, bravely, though he is pallid. “I’ll speak ‘ter the giants. Try ter get them on-side. Still got a few mates in the mountains.”

Albus inclines his head.

“I would be much obliged, Hagrid. The rest of you – be vigilant. Arthur, keep your eyes wide open at the Ministry. Most of all, be safe, discreet, and trust only in each other.”

“You ask too much, Dumbledore,” Sirius says, though his scowl is pointed sorely at Severus.

“That may be, Sirius,” Albus says calmly. “And yet I am asking it of you anyway.”

Sirius looks at his feet, now, embarrassed and frustrated in equal measure.

Truth be told, they all appear rather paradoxically reluctant and determined all at once.

They loathe the reality they are faced with, and with supremely good reason.

They loathe _him_ , even, for asking them to confront it.

But they will do it anyway.

They will trust him anyway.

And that is what the Order of the Phoenix _is_ – what it was last time, and must be again, now.

Lord Voldemort will have his Death Eaters, of course.

Likely, he never lost them, and those he did lose, he will soon regain, through pretty promises or ghastly threats – it is all the same to that man.

He may try, again, to take the Giants, the Dragons, washed up Aurors with a taste for blood and a chip on their shoulders.

If he is bold, and Albus wagers that he is, he may try the Centaurs.

His army will look precisely as one might expect a Dark Lord’s to look: formidable, impossible and entirely capable of pulling a darkened cloud over the wizarding world that will never lift up again.

But his army will also look fragile – made up of disenfranchised creatures and misguided youth that would turn the _other_ way, if only they were incentivised enough, with money or with fear or with power- with bravery, _love_.

Hope, even, Merlin willing.

Lord Voldemort’s army will look nothing like this one, huddled around a wonky table in Grimauld Place.

And that, _that_ , is their greatest strength.

* * *

 

When it is over, Severus Snape follows Albus Dumbledore, ever inconspicuous, into a quaint Muggle alley, littered with lamps and a stray or two.

The younger man casts _muffliato_ and a _salvio hexia_ for good measure before he speaks.

When he does, it is hasty, irate.

“If you had obliviated the Weasley boy in the beginning-”

“So you have told me,” Dumbledore says, unrattled, it seems, by his companion’s temperament. “I saw no need for it, however, at the time, more’s the pity.”

“In any case,” Severus snarls, “we cannot afford to have a member of the Order frolicking to Hogwarts to retrieve him. There is far more important work to be done. The boy is of no consequence.”

“His safety is of consequence.”

Dumbledore peers over his spectacles, ever mild in his temperament.

“Debatable, Dumbledore,” the other wizard scoffs.

“Enough,” Dumbledore says, weary. “You’ve a great task ahead. You said you know where he has taken them?”

Severus inhales hollowly.

“I did. I do.”

“Excellent.”

The old wizard’s smile is brief as it is warm.

“Then there is no time to be lost. You know what must be done.”

Snape’s only response is a stiff nod.

 A sharp _crack_ , like a whip stinging the sky, announces his exit.

* * *

 

Harry is staring at the parchment with eyes more red than white at the edges, and an intensity that tugs at Hermione’s chest in the most desperate sort of way.

“This is a _good_ thing, Harry,” she tries. “We know Malfoy’s at the Manor already now, so we won’t have to explain his presence there when we send him back for Cedric. It will make this all easier.”

“Will it?” Harry says, voice terribly strained. “What if he’s _in_ on it, ‘Mione?”

What if Draco Malfoy is more than Hogwarts’ own tyrant in the making?

What if he bears a tattoo that writhes and burns on his own wrist, just like Karkaroff’s?

Like his father’s?

Hermione hesitates, mouth half-open in its haste to spill out reassurances that no, of course he wasn’t-

“It won’t matter.”

It is Tom.

She meets his eyes over her shoulder, teeth digging in to her lower lip to stop the trembling.

She does not want Harry to see it.

‘It’ being, of course, the fact that she is quite terribly nervous.

 _Frightened_ at how precarious their rescue might so quickly become.

He is enough of a mess of nerves and dread all on his own, never-mind that he’s not eaten a bite these past few days.

Hermione’s parents are on the verge of calling in a home-doctor on him.

But _Tom_ -

Tom does not have to play _pretend_ at confidence, and for that, Hermione is grateful.

As much as she can feel grateful for the man who has put them in this predicament in the first instance, in any case.  

She _thinks_ he isn’t pretending, anyway – and she is becoming rather good at telling.

Hindsight, after all, is a gift, and Hermione does not intend to waste it.

Hindsight means that she _knows_ , now, what it looks like when Tom Riddle tells a lie.

He is alarmingly skilled at it, of course, but there are indications all the same.  

His shoulders, mostly.

They become rather rigid when he lies- wind up tight a little too close to his neck in a way that makes her think of her father’s old wooden music box, tightly coiled when she spins its little handle all the way, ready to play its tune; to _entertain_ her.

Then there are his eyes.

Hermione is not quite sure she believes the Muggle mantra that the eyes are a window into the soul.

She always had found eyes rather difficult, after all.

Did that glint in the woman behind the store counter’s eye mean that she was happy?

Did it mean, perhaps, that she was laughing – laughing at Hermione?

Did it mean nothing at all, was Hermione imagining it there?

Yes, eyes are difficult at the best of times.

Still, she can’t shake the feeling of utter conviction that when Tom Riddle had lied to her, that night in his quarters, his eyes had been so- _crowded._

 _Crowded_ with this abundance of thoughts, sentiments, convictions that were utterly jarring, did not make _sense_ together _,_ and it had been near overwhelming to meet them at all.

They were _too_ wide.

She had thought, then, mistakenly, of course, that it signalled his utter earnestness.

Now, she knows better.  

Now, his shoulders are broad, relaxed and set low, unhunched, eyes uncluttered, no hurricane behind them hinting at any performance on his part.

Besides, feigning _confidence_ was not something she would lightly accuse _him_ of.

“The Imperius Curse doesn’t care if Draco loves or hates Cedric,” he shrugs. “Do remember to breathe, won’t you, Potter? You look like a fucking twig, which is all well and good, except that you’re rather useless to _me_ that way.”

“Charming,” Hermione shoots him a dark look.

Tom’s mouth only curves up at the right corner.

His eye flashes, now, a _wink_ meant solely for her.

For a moment, she only blinks rather blankly, taken aback.

“I’m no good to Cedric like this either,” Harry admits. “Fuck.”

Without a further word of warning, and before Hermione can gently ask him to mind his language, what with her parents downstairs, he slams his fist dully into the floor.

“Harry,” Hermione protests, and she grabs at the offending hand, even as Harry tries to swat hers away.

“Lay off, Hermione,” he says cuttingly.

Ignoring him, she folds his hand in her own, the pad of her thumb circling around the angry-pink marks the impact has left on his knuckles.

They are grazed, and only just bleeding.

“Merlin,” she murmurs. “ _Episkey._ ”

Harry closes his eyes, exhale heavy, even as the warm light of her wand gives effect to her spell, soothes the hot aching of his hand.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“No,” she says, though not unkindly. “You shouldn’t have.”

He almost smiles.  

Tom clears his throat.

Hermione straightens; takes in his tense jaw, the sharp look about him as he surveys the pair of them, now.

“What is it?” she says, mildly guarded.

For a moment, she is positive he is about to scowl at her, snap.

Then,

“That was hardly necessary.” He gestures to her wand with the jerk of his head. “You mustn’t waste your magic on cleaning up after his tantrums.”  

Harry shakes his head, a humourless sort of laugh escaping his lips, together with a curse word that Hermione cannot quite catch.

“My magic is hardly finite,” she says lightly, brow lifted, unsure whether to be amused or offended. “I am more than capable of healing a bruise _and_ casting other spells all at once, would you believe.”

“Just as I am _capable_ of cleaning your father’s toilet in a second flat,” he says coolly. “But your focus must always be on magic that is worthy of you, Hermione.”

Hermione scoffs, though it catches halfway in her throat.

 _Worthy of you,_ which sounds rather like a compliment, on its surface, at least, and certainly, it is meant as one, coming from _him,_ but -

“That’s,” she begins –

“Elitist,” he suggests. “Arrogant. Probably, yes.”

He seems remarkably unbothered on both accounts.

“And yet,” he tilts his head delicately, “you don’t see the great Albus Dumbledore cleaning the bathrooms at Hogwarts, do you? _He_ has squibs and House-Elves do that for him.”

Hermione flinches, opens her mouth, and Tom puts up his hands, palms faced outward.

“Make of it what you will. I am not trying to argue with you.”

“No,” she says sweetly. “You’re only trying to tell me how to use my magic.”

The echo of a smirk flitters across Tom’s mouth at that.  

He shakes his head.

“You are impossible to satisfy, Hermione Granger,” he cocks his head to one side, now.

When he speaks again, his voice is inexplicably low.

“Though I’ll not cease trying.”  

Not cease –

Hermione’s cheeks colour invariably, though she is entirely unsure why.

S _he’s_ nothing to feel embarrassed about.

 _Not cease trying_ –

“Shut up,” Harry says heatedly, and Hermione starts, something like guilt chewing at her chest. “Both of you. I don’t care who cleans the bathrooms at Hogwarts. Riddle-  do it.”

Hermione wonders if she is imagining the contortion of annoyance that flits across Tom’s features, even as his eyes flicker to Harry, cast themselves over his increasingly narrow form.

 “Certainly,” he says, smoothly, as though they are to embark on the most mundane venture one could conceive of.

Perhaps, to Tom Riddle, ‘mundane’ is all that kidnapping a schoolboy with a view to appropriating his free will truly amounts to.

She shivers, armed folding tight around her even as Tom trains his wand on the potion churning below the parchment.

His eyes are closed, now, wand raised and steady –

It is the most Hermione has seen him really _focus_ on a spell.

It is a particularly tricky one, of course – precise, and precarious.

He has to compel Draco to apparate, and god forbid if he manages to splinch him-

“ _Afferte huc illum_ ,” he murmurs, over again twice more, for good measure.

The potion seems to tremble, twist, writhe like the sea in a storm, and Harry’s eyes flash to Hermione’s, wide, and wondering, as she is wondering, if this is a good sign, or an awful one.

“ _Accio,”_ Tom says, but is more than a murmur, this time.

No, this time, it is not a request, but a command.

Not soft, but _cold_ , somehow, forged from ice.

It has to be.

If the magic is to obey him, it has to be.

“ _Accio Draco Malfoy._ ”

* * *

 

When Hermione had first made the acquaintance of Draco Malfoy, she had spared a moment to imagine what he might become.

Her own uniform was ironed at the time, of course, but his put it to shame; had her fidgeting in her stockings and playing at her hem with warm cheeks.

They were magically pressed – to perfection, of course.

Magic _was_ mundane to a boy like him.

 _Magic_ kept his hair slicked back and his teeth gleaming white, his shoes polished.

Magic got him from this destination to that, set alight the candles on his birthday cakes one year after another.

Perhaps this was why Draco Malfoy had that manner of walking that invited one to pay _attention_ when he entered a room.

She imagined he might be a politician, one day.

He seemed to fit the mould well enough, and the more she grew acquainted with him, the more she was convinced of it.

He had something of a knack for speaking louder than those around him, after all.

He took comfort in the presence of decidedly less bright Slytherins, who in turn, had something of a knack for responding with gusto and awe to his every verbalisation of thought.

He took pride in his family; his personal encounters with Cornellius Fudge.

He sought out the prosperous and the renowned, and when they would not have him, he did not forget it – Harry was a testament to that.

Yes, Hermione thought that he was of a political ilk.

That would make him her opponent, when she commenced her very own campaign – after, perhaps, studying the ancient Nordic runes in some further depth abroad, or researching under an esteemed alchemist, but no matter.

Until then, Hermione was content to keep her nose down and her attentions to herself, insofar as Draco Malfoy was concerned.

She had not imagined that she might live in a world in which she might ever feel compelled to summon him into her family home.

It is for this reason, and this reason only, that she allows herself a moment to merely blink, dazed, at the jarring visual of the Slytherin boy, wrapped in a rather posh-looking cream sweater and sprawled across the floor with his limbs jutted out at awkward angles with his mouth agape – the residue of a distinctly distressing shriek.

“Salutations, Mr Malfoy,” Tom says breezily, stowing his wand into the back pocket of his trousers in one fluid motion.

Draco’s eyes are foggy, unfocused, even as they seem to settle on Tom.  

His skin develops a peculiar green tinge to it, as though he is well overdue for an appointment on his knees with the loo.

“What-”

He flinches, now, eyes darting to Harry, to her.

He clenches his jaw.

“Where the _hell_ am I?” he demands, shaken. “Professor? What’ve they done to me?”

“Less than you deserve.”

It is Harry, not Tom, who speaks now.

His face is disconcertingly empty to behold, though there is some _force_ behind his eyes, some feeling boiling beneath.

Hermione is not sure quite when he drew his wand.

Still, the sight of it, clasped firm between his fingers and trained squarely on Malfoy, sends her chest contorting.

“Harry,” she whispers hurriedly, though what she means to say next, she is not certain.

 “Now, Potter,” Tom says conversationally, “is that any way to treat our guest?”

“You’re right, Riddle,” Harry says oddly. “Where are my manners?”

He tilts his head.

Looks at his wand, now.

Lowers it, and Hermione releases a breath she did not know she was holding -

He stops.

 _Stops,_ so it is trained, not at Malfoy’s head, no –

But at his chest.

Malfoy’s brows shoot up.

“ _Potter_ ,” he seethes. “You can’t be serious. My father will have you in Azkaban faster than you can say-”

But then Harry-

_Merlin._

But he does it.

He does it, and she cannot stop him, there is no _time,_ and either Tom cannot stop him either or he does not _want_ to and –

“ _Imperio,_ ” Harry grunts.

_Imperio._

_Imperio Imperio Imperio Imperio –_

The spells’ power is grounded in ancient language, as are most.

 _Imperio –_ government.

To govern.

To rule, _entirely._

To control.

_Imperio._

Harry _says_ it, rough as it is clear.

Of course he does.

That is, after all, why they have brought him here.

Merlin, it was _her idea._

 _Her idea,_ and so why on earth is her heart racing like it is, skin squirming like it is, the way it did in second year, when she first witnessed the awful cries of a mandrake, her breath caught in a knot in her throat like it is-

“Harry,” she bursts, voice heavy with some terrible, ugly feeling-

She thinks that it is guilt.

He does not look at her.

He does not look at her, but she is looking at him.

His glasses are skewed upward on one side, wand hand not quivering in the slightest.

His chest is not rising and falling any faster than is normal.

And all week, it has been staggering, heaving, in such an exceedingly abnormal way.

It is as though it has taken this, _this_ , to calm him.

His eyes are narrowed, flitting across Draco Malfoy’s face clinically –

He is checking that the curse has done its job.

Hermione swallows, hard.

It has.  

Malfoy’s face, tort and snarling a moment ago, is slack, now.

His eyes are glazed over, mouth carved into a ridiculous, absent-minded smile.

His mind, after all, is entirely absent at this time.

“Feeling impatient, are we?” Tom says mildly, though his eyes are very bright.

He sounds –

Hermione’s chest tightens.

Merlin, he sounds impressed.

Enthralled, even.

 _Hungry,_ and she wants to scream because Merlin, this is not what she wanted –

“Harry,” she whispers, horror colouring her tone even as her cheeks turn ashen, “Harry you just performed an Unforgivable Curse on a real _person_.”

Harry snorts colourlessly.

“I sure hope I did.” He casts her an exasperated look. “What are you playing at, Hermione?”

“I-” Hermione hesitates, gaze falling helplessly on Draco. “Harry, this isn’t-”

Harry shakes his head.

“We don’t have _time_ ,” he says firmly. “Malfoy,” he clears his throat, fixing his attentions on the boy he has cursed. “Tell us where Cedric Diggory is.”

“Harry,” Hermione says desperately. “He probably doesn’t _know-_ ”

But Malfoy cuts her off.

“Father’s cellar.”

His voice is very small.

She flinches, hand falling to cup her mouth.

Flinches, because Merlin, there it is, then:

He knows.

And if he _knows –_

If he knows, then Draco Malfoy has well exceeded the crimes of a schoolyard bully.

If he knows, he is one of them.

God, he might have known all of it –

The graveyard.

What they had done to Harry.

What they planned, still, to do.

Harry grits his teeth.

“Is he alive?” he says abruptly, the words wavering even as he says them.

Draco merely blinks about at them all for a moment, brow wrinkled, as though he did not quite understand the question.

“Answer me,” Harry shouts, and he is _upon_ him, now, fists curling into his jumper, jerking Malfoy toward him from where he lies, still, on the floor, and Hermione almost _whimpers,_ because it is not _Harry,_ but it is for Cedric, only for Cedric, and so it must be alright-

“Y-yes,” he splutters, eyes wide, petrified-

_Yes._

A tremor, now-

It erupts in this little room, enlivens it, _them._

Harry closes his eyes, a staggered breath escaping his lungs.

Hermione’s hand finds its way inadvertently to her chest, and presses, hard, and if she had believed in God, in any God, she supposes that now, she might be thanking them most ardently for Cedric Diggory’s life-

“Oh,” she breathes, “Oh, Harry-”

He is unmoving, aside from his lips.

They tremble, only just-

Whisper something that she cannot hear.

He opens his eyes.

“You’re going to keep it that way,” he says thickly. “Get up.”

 _Imperio_ sees to it that Draco does.

 _Imperio_ sees to it that he leans in, now, listens to every word Harry tells him –

And then Tom, when he interjects.

And Hermione-

Hermione turns away, if only for a moment.

Her eyes are stinging, somehow – too _hot._

It is as though the sight of it all is rather too much for them to bear.

* * *

 

“Cedric Sir- wake up, wake _up_ , Cedric Sir- terrible news, terrible-”

Cedric blinks, hazy, into the dim of the cellar.

Dobby’s eyes, wide and gleaming and watering at the edges, blink back from where he sits atop Cedric’s chest.

“Cedric Sir!” the Elf says again, and without warning, a rather bony hand strikes at Cedric’s cheek.

The sting it leaves in its wake is rather impressive.

“Dobby,” Cedric murmurs, raising his hands to cover his face. “I’m awake, Dobby, I’m-”

“Cedric Sir needs to escape,” Dobby cries urgently. “Master Malfoy has told Dobby, Sir-”

“Draco?” Cedric shakes his head. “Dobby, do you mean Draco?”

“-He did not mean to tell Dobby, Sir, Dobby was not supposed to know, only Mr Lucius Malfoy Sir asked Dobby to polish the fine silver- his mother’s- and Dobby knows what fine silver means, Sir-”

“Dobby,” Cedric says, and he bolts upright, now, inadvertently sending Dobby toppling to the ground beside him. “Merlin, sorry.”

He winces, a flash of sharp pain flaring in his own side, and he arches his back sharp over his knees –

“Cedric Sir cannot apologise to _Dobby,_ ” Dobby says at once, terribly overwhelmed, it seems. “Like an _equal_ -”

“Dobby,” Cedric closes his eyes, “I need you to tell me what’s going on. What did Draco say?”

Dobby blows his nose rather violently into his teacosy before he elaborates.

“He was not allowed to tell you, Sir. Mr Lucius said – Mr Malfoy was _not_ to warn, or no supper for Mr Malfoy. But Dobby has to, Sir, Dobby must, it is too horrible, Sir-”

Cedric leans forward, a numb sort of dread sinking his limbs further into the harsh cold of the floor.

“What?” he says, steadily as he can manage. “What’s too horrible, Dobby?”

Dobby’s voice is distinctly hushed when he speaks next.

“They are coming Sir. All of them. He- Who Must Not Be Named,” he draws in a heavy breath, “and his Followers. They are coming here.”

The air in the room is cold, is always cold.

Now, it feels like nothing at all.  

“To kill me?” Cedric asks, and his eyes are closed, still, but, oddly enough, his chest does not stutter, now.

He has been anticipating his own death for an unbearably long while.

Dreaming about it, wondering, pondering the ‘will it hurt’ and the ‘will I see my grandfather’ and the ‘will I see anything at all, ever again’.

It would not be _bad_ news.

Not necessarily.

At least he would know.

“No,” Dobby says hastily, “well, yes, Sir, but not just- not only- Sir, they know where Harry Potter is. They think that Harry Potter is going to come to save Cedric Sir – _today_.”

Cedric’s eyes snap open.

“Harry,” he says, and for the faintest of moments, he is only surprised-

And then, Merlin, the _hurt_ –

It is not numb anymore.

And it is _worse_ than the pain splitting through his side; worse than yesterday’s _crucio,_ and the one before.

Worse, because he is going to die today- and that isn’t important, that doesn’t _matter._

But if Dobby is right, so will Harry, and that absolutely _does_.

So will Harry, because of him.

“It’s a trap,” Dobby goes on, somewhat obliviously and somewhat redundantly in equal measure. “Harry Potter is the one He Who Must Not Be Named wants, Sir, you see-”

“He’s coming to – save me,” Cedric says, stunned. “Harry’s,” he swallows, shakes his head. “Are you sure?”

Dobby nods frantically, and Merlin knows, it’s awful news, and by all rights, Cedric should feel sick to his stomach at it.

To be sure, he does.

But the sick is mixed with butterflies, now – with a warmth that is born in his chest and spreading, even to his fingertips, and it feels like soup in the winter and autumn air on the Quidditch Pitch all at once; like catching Xavier’s eye at the pillar of Kings Cross Station that ever so conspicuously advertises the location of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters after a dull summer.

Feels like a slice of cake and a friend in a darkened cellar.

“He Who Must Not Be Named knows it, Sir, he knows, he _knows_ , and he knows where they are-”

“They?” Cedric tears his hands through his hair. “Harry is coming to save me,” he repeats. “Why- Dobby, why on earth would he- _Merlin_.”

He slams his fist, now, abrupt, into the ground, does not whimper, even as the skin upon his knuckles tears unceremoniously-

“Dobby we can’t- that can’t happen,” he says thickly, and he meets the Elf’s eyes, implores him to _understand_ , “he has to be warned, he has to stay away – please.”  

And he thinks that he keeps saying it.

Please.

Certainly, he means to.

But the frantic hum of his own blood, rushing to his ears, _screaming_ at him, cloaks over the room like the night-time.

He cannot hear another _thing._

He cannot even hear it when, without a further word, except perhaps with his eyes, wide, glittering, and ever so apologetic, Dobby disapparates from the Malfoy’s cellar.

* * *

 

“Say it again,” Tom says, “one more time. _Everything,_ Mr Malfoy.”

He jerks his shirt-sleeves up to rest at his elbows, where the hems will be less of a nuisance to him, and leans back to observe their little pawn.

Draco Malfoy does not appear to be thriving under the influence of the Imperius Curse, more’s the pity.

The boy is nightmarishly pale, cheeks tinged almost green, and his voice has taken on a rather strained tone, as though with each word he must suppress a wave of sick from rising in his throat.

It is not terribly surprising.

Abraxas never had a strong stomach himself.

“I think he got it,” Harry snaps. “What’s the hold up? Send him back.”

“You’ve done an admirable job thus far, Potter,” Tom says, not bothering to look at the fuming boy at his side as he addresses him. “Your… _passion_ , in particular, I must commend. But we must be sure that Draco has perfectly understood our instructions. Do you disagree?”

Harry grumbles under his breath –

But then, he only nods.

“Good,” Tom says delicately. “Now,” he returns his attentions to the Malfoy boy. “Go. _Quickly_.”

“I,” Draco croaks, “Yes, Professor Riddle.”

Tom feels his lip twitch upward.

At least Draco has remembered his manners, even in his enchanted state.

A snort cuts the boy off.

“There’s really no need to call him that.”

It takes a not insignificant portion of his efforts to mask his irritation with a politely vacant expression as he quirks his brow towards her _._

Hermione Granger, as it happens, is rather attractive when she is perfectly incensed.

Strictly in the literal sense, of course.

Strictly in the sense that _accio_ attracts an object to the caster, draws it invariably _in_.

The Muggles call it _magnetic_ , he recalls, that phenomena.

Yes, Hermione Granger is utterly _magnetic_ – at least, at this precise instant.  

It is something to do with the heat to her cheeks; the glint to her eyes, the _venom_ that colours the harsh line her lips form –

The sharp slant to her brows, the agitated rise and fall of her chest, the anxious pattern the pad of her fingers trace over her wand, perhaps entirely unconsciously, but Tom follows it with his gaze, wonders what combination of spells are bristling in her head, tempting her hand, comforting, perhaps -

“ _Do it,”_ she had said, when they were duelling, face _just like that_ , and he had only fucking stared, like an ordinary man, an ordinary wizard, _distracted_ , had only thought-

Fuck, but he was _wrong_ , and his mouth tastes terribly bitter because of it.

Not entirely wrong, of course, not substantively – but he had been wrong to estimate that she would be useful to him, now - with _this_.

Wrong to estimate that just because she had resolved to assist her friend notwithstanding the cost, she would necessarily _act_ like it today.

She’s too much burdened by residual empathy – too deeply ingrained will all those tiresome _rules_ about what is legal and what is not, what is moral and what is not.

And it is a terrible pity, and then some.

 It is dangerous.

 _Dangerous,_ because she’s clever.

Because she hasn’t made him any vow, hasn’t bound her soul.

Because she and her nonsensical sense of empathy for Draco fucking Malfoy could fuck this all up royally, and Cedric Diggory would not be the only one to pay for it.

“Hermione,” he says, calm, slow, hands raised, palms faced toward her, open, as he has learned she rather likes them, and he steps closer, “If you don’t mind, this is rather important. You should know.”

He is standing squarely in front of her now, though she is not looking at him.

No matter.

He only shifts closer –

An inch, perhaps, but it is too much, and he _knows_ that it is too much.

And so, when he dips his head, just a fraction more, that he might speak into her ear, she has nowhere to look but at _him,_ and she does, and her eyes are angry, bright-

“It was your idea.”

He speaks softly, but she recoils as though he had shouted it, something twisting behind her features. 

“I’m perfectly aware of that fact, thank you,” she says unevenly. “I just- Merlin, look at him, Tom.”

She is almost whispering, now, and she has told him to look at Draco Malfoy, but her eyes are solely on Tom, now, wide, asking him a question, only, they don’t _quite_ know how to put it, and it is infuriating.

“Do you remember how we brought him here, Hermione? Would you like me to remind you?” he says, and his hand –

His hand is on her wrist, now.

His thumb rests alongside her own, fingers brushing her palm, tracing-

His fucking _hand_ is on her wrist.

He does not recall putting it there.

Certainly, there is no point to it.

He drops it at once, eyes flickering to hers, but she only blinks back, brow mildly furrowed.

Evidently, whether or not Tom is touching her is not something Hermione Granger concerns herself with in the slightest.

 He clears his throat roughly.

“He called you a Mudblood,” he says bluntly. “You’re not stupid enough to have forgotten, but if you’re naïve enough to feel _sorry_ for him anyway, you’re a fool just the same.”

Her face contorts when he says it – _Mudblood._

He knew that it would.

It is satisfying, in part.

It is also decidedly unpleasant.

“You keep calling me that,” she shakes her head, seemingly exasperated. “Threatening to, anyway. As though a fool is the worst thing I could possibly be.”

“Better a fool than a murderer,” he says coolly. “Is that what you’re going to tell me, Hermione? You’ve been singing that tune a beat too long, I’m afraid. It is beyond tiresome, now.”

She will protest now, he expects.

She will bite her lip and clench her teeth and scold him for his assessment – tell him that yes, as a matter of fact, it is better to be a fool than a murderer-

No,

She will not accept his premise, even, will reject the binary he has presented her with; tell him, perhaps, that this is not a matter of foolishness, but of embracing indifference –

Only she doesn’t.

Not this time.

This time, Hermione’s tongue darts over her lip once.

 “We need to talk to him, first- without the ridiculous influence of this Curse. I’m not saying that we can’t use it afterwards, but – we haven’t tried anything else,” she says at last.

Not arguing.

Not really.  

Tom pauses, searches her face, though for what, precisely, he does not know-

“No.”

It is Potter.

“Fuck’s sake, Hermione,” the boy says, and he is _angry._ “He’s torturing Cedric, have you got that? If Viktor was being tortured-”

Ah.

Viktor Krum.

Tom had rather forgotten the boy existed.

After all, he had served his purpose.

Hermione hasn’t said so much as a word about him, for whatever it is worth-

Not that it is worth much.

Not that it would matter in any case whether she had or she hadn’t.

Her misguided affections are not of _his_ concern.

Her mouth is trembling, now.

“I-God, Harry, I’m-”

“Don’t,” Harry says pleadingly. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Just let this happen. Please, Hermione. Please, will you just let this happen?”

Hermione’s eyes flit to their captive once more, though Draco is utterly unappreciative of it.

He is unable to truly register any of them, eyes hazy, such is the nature of the Imperius Curse.

“Look,” Harry’s voice softens, “I’m not blind, Hermione. I know this is bad. Really bad. I don’t like this. This isn’t us going dark- like Him, okay? This is just now. Just once. For Cedric. Do you understand?”

His hand is on hers, now, where Tom’s had been, only Hermione seems to register _his_ touch with something more welcoming than utter disdain, indifference.

A distinctly irksome feeling stirs near Tom’s sternum.

For a tedious, stretched-out moment, Hermione does not say anything.

She does not nod, shake her head, burst into fucking tears.

Her face is blank when, at last, she turns- not to Tom, but to Draco Malfoy.

Tom watches, waiting. 

“Draco,” she says, and here is a heavy note to her tone that weighs the words down, “can you tell us what you’re going to do? We need to know you’ve understood.”

_Yes._

Fuck, _finally,_ and she took her fucking time, but Tom will not hold it against her.

At least, he will endeavour not to make it obvious that he does.

Beside her, Harry murmurs something like ‘thank you’.

Draco Malfoy opens his mouth.

“I am going to return to my home,” he says dully. “I am going to the cellar. I will ensure that nobody follows me. I will ensure that nobody knows where I am going. I will ensure that nobody knows that I am cursed- that nobody knows about any of this. I will free Cedric Diggory. I will bring him here.”

Harry Potter watches, hungry, nodding, and Merlin, he is going to do just marvellously, in such a short time, now, and Lord Voldemort will be _incandescent_.

Hermione’s lips have ceased their trembling.

“Perfect,” Tom says. “Well, then, Mr Malfoy. Off you go.”

He draws his wand, trains it on the miserable boy in front of him.

“I won’t let you down, Professor,” Malfoy says, tone remarkably free of its usual snide character in his current state.

Tom’s smile is positively glittering.

“Oh, I trust that you won’t.”

In the moment that follows, Draco Malfoy is spinning, spinning-

Vanished from the Granger’s home.

* * *

 

It is too bright.

Too bright, and Cedric wants to cry.

_Merlin._

He’s dreamed about leaving the cellar, wished for it so hard he thought, one night, that his magic might be strong enough to make it happen, even without his wand.

Now, he has been marched gracelessly up the stone stairs that brought him there, and the world outside, nevermind the rooms, the household, above, are light enough to hurt his eyes.

“Where are we going, Sir?” he asks Lucius Malfoy, as though he does not already know well enough.

“Dining hall,” is the curt response. “You are not to speak, is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Cedric mutters.

His eyes flash desperately about the house, clinging to every window, every door-

He’s not seen Dobby since the Elf awoke him with the most dreadful news Cedric could possibly have envisioned.

He is beginning, with a sinking feeling, to suspect that Lucius Malfoy may be to blame for that.

He is not the most versed in the bond between a House-Elf and their wizard Master, but he would not doubt the unfettered ability of Lucius Malfoy to control Dobby’s every word and move as easily as he might draw a breath.

The state of Dobby has confirmed as much, in the past days – bandaged hands concealing the scars of an iron, bruises littering his arms, an eye swollen shut.

He supposes that this makes Lucius Malfoy a cruel man.

It is funny.

Not properly funny, not in the way that invites laughter and tugs at your mouth.

Still, it as funny as anything can be funny to Cedric, now:  

Even when his every nerve was screaming its protest at Mr Malfoy’s curse, Cedric had not decided, in his own mind, that the man was cruel.

His own father had told him enough about You Know Who to let him know of his tendency to threaten the families of his subjects to secure their absolute servitude.

Would Cedric curse somebody if his father’s life was on the line?

The truth is, he does not know.

He has _felt_ it, felt the unspeakable, unforgiveable sting of _crucio,_ bit his own tongue so hard it tore, _bled_ , because of it-

Still, he does not know if he would have the fortitude to perform it on another person or not, to save his family.

Lucius Malfoy was not cruel for torturing Cedric.

Not inherently.

It was not his own design; not his own will.

But Dobby is different.

You Know Who does not compel him to treat his House Elf this way.

Dobby’s bruises, Dobby’s pain – that is on Lucius, and he alone.

And that, so much more than _this_ , is why Lucius Malfoy is cruel.

That, so much more than this, is Unforgiveable.

“-stupid Elf,” Lucius is hissing, breaking Cedric out of his reverie, and he blinks, relief flooding warmth across his chest.

Dobby is perched, shoulders hunched, in the corner of the room Lucius has taken him to now –

A remarkably lengthy one adorned with fantastical chandeliers that glittered with the fairies dancing, glowing, inside of them, and a perfectly black table stretching across the whole of it.

“Didn’t I send you to the kitchen?”

“Dobby looked, Master,” Dobby says, head bowed, not meeting Lucius’ eye.

Cedric wonders if it is because he is afraid, or if it is because Lucius will not abide it-

To meet the eyes of his House Elf servant.

“Dobby,” Lucius snaps, “Did not look hard enough. Clearly.”

His eyes flash to Cedric, eyebrows lifting sharply, as though to say, ‘ _Merlin, service these days is atrocious, is it not?’_

“Master’s special goblet was not there, Master,” Dobby mumbles.

Lucius’ eyes tighten.

“Of course it was _there_ ,” he says thickly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Dobby shakes his head, frantic.

“It was not, Master, it was not!” he insists. “Dobby knows, Master, because Dobby saw-” he shudders. “But Dobby was asked not to say.”

At that, Lucius’ whole form becomes terribly tense.

“Asked?” he says delicately. “Indeed. By who? You will tell me, Elf. You will tell me, or you will find you will never tell anyone anything, ever again- due to your lack of a _tongue._ ”

A thin smile stretches across his face upon the last word, ever briefly.

A shudder seems to erupt through Dobby’s body, and Cedric feels suddenly, irrationally, fearful for his own tongue-

“Master Draco,” Dobby utters, heavy with regret, apology. “He told Dobby not to tell – said that he wanted to take-”

“ _Stupefy,_ ” Lucius says, without so much as a moment’s warning, and Dobby is tumbling wildly, helplessly, into the wall.

He slams against it back first, an uneasy crunch announcing the collision.

“Well then,” Lucius goes on, conversationally, politely, “It seems I must have a word with my son. Elf,” he clears his throat. “You are not to let the boy out of your sight. He is to be a very special guest at tonight’s little…dinner party. Is that understood?”

“Dobby understands, Master,” Dobby croaks where he crouches by the wall, hand tracing gingerly over his hurt spine.

Cedric feels ill.

“Good,” Mr Malfoy is curt, as ever.

He spins in his impeccably polished shoes, casts Cedric a lingering look.

He furrows his brow in distaste.

“My, you look positively _wounded_.” He leans in. “I would advise that you change that. A sorry face will not earn the sympathy of the Dark Lord- nor the mercy. But you needn’t die tonight, Diggory.”

Cedric blinks.

Blinks, because Merlin-

He has spent a great deal of time writhing under the force of this man’s magic.

His darkness.

But callous as it was, grim as it was, Cedric is almost certain that Lucius Malfoy has just given him as close as a reassuring piece of advice as the man knows how to offer.

It is _bizarre_ , of course, and entirely curious, and if Cedric were not petrified for Harry and overwhelmed by the light, and the fact that he is standing, after so long left sprawled across a cold and dark floor, he would probably have said something like ‘ _thank you’_.

In any case, Lucius has marched from the room before Cedric can process what he’s said.

“Dobby,” he whispers, dropping to his knees to better see the Elf. “Dobby, we have to warn him.” Throwing a look over his shoulder and assuring himself that Lucius is well and truly out of earshot, he adds, “Harry” for good measure. “He can’t come here- Merlin, I have to do something.”

“Dobby knows, Sir,” Dobby says excitedly-

And Merlin, he _is_ excited.

His tiny body seems to be positively humming with energy, his eyes brimming wide with anticipation.

“That is why Dobby told Master Malfoy about the goblet, Cedric Sir.”

Cedric frowns for a moment, blanking.

“Alright,” he says cautiously.

“He is looking for Master Draco, Sir,” Dobby says proudly.

“Yes, because he has this-uh, goblet,” Cedric nods, trying not to look too entirely underwhelmed in the face of the Elf’s evident glee.

Dobby shakes his head, raising a gangly finger to his lips-

A secret.

“No, Sir,” he whispers. “He doesn’t.”

It dawns on him now.

It dawns on him, and it is the most beautiful thing he has felt in such a painfully long while –

He holds his breath.

“A distraction,” he says at once. “ _Of course_. Dobby, thank you. How long do we have? We can come up with something.”

“Not long, Cedric Sir, not long,” Dobby says, nodding profusely. “But long enough.”

“Long enough?”

Something unpleasant is clenching in Cedric’s torso, muffling the hope, the thrill-

He can hear Lucius Malfoy’s footsteps.

 “Dobby,” he drops his head, desperate, _helpless._ “Dobby, no we don’t.”

“Yes Sir,” Dobby says, and he is still smiling, and it is too real, too wide. “We do.”

Cedric opens his mouth-

To ask what he means, to disagree, to doubt.

But in an instant, Dobby’s hand catches his wrist.

In an instant, there is a jerk and a _push._

In an instant, the room around them is folding away.

An instant more, and it is gone.

* * *

 

Cedric is spluttering on the ground.

It is not cold.

It is not cold, and it is not dark.

When he blinks, it is not at a dreary ceiling, nor dazzling chandeliers.

When he blinks, it is at a sky, full and wide and boasting a brilliantly orange setting sun, and _Merlin_ if it isn’t the most breathtaking thing he has ever seen, ever will see again-

Cedric is not in the Malfoy Manor.

Not anymore.

Cedric is –

Merlin, it's a road. 

A mundane little road, houses and hedges lining each side.

He is-

_Free._

Free, and he did not think he would be, not ever.

Free, and _alive_ , and he owes that, all of that, to the Malfoy’s House Elf, for being clever enough, brave enough-

“Dobby,” he chokes. “Dobby, what happened?”

He crawls onto his elbows, searching for the House-Elf whose steady hand brought him here.

His eyes land on the little creature.

“Dobby?”

He straightens his spine at once.

Because not a moment ago, Dobby was _bouncing_ with his excitement, with his pride.

Not a moment ago, he was as awake and alive as Cedric has ever seen anyone-

Except perhaps Harry.

He is not like that anymore.

Now, Dobby is collapsed on the ground beside him, heaving, wheezing, as though his lungs are engaged in fierce battle with every breath they try to draw in.

“Merlin, Dobby. What’s happened to you?”

His hand flies to the Elf’s own.

“Dobby has- travelled without- permission, Cedric Sir,” Dobby pants. “Master’s magic- pulls Dobby back. Dobby must be punished.”

_Punished._

And that means suffocating.

That means ironed hands and blisters and bruises and broken bones.

That might mean-

Cedric clenches his jaw.

“No,” he says fiercely. “Dobby, no.”

Dobby shakes his head.

“Dobby must, Sir,” he breathes. “But Cedric Sir must go. Cedric Sir must go to Harry Potter.”

“Not without you,” he says at once. He tears a hand through his hair, desperate. “Dobby, I don’t even know where he is.”

“Near,” Dobby croaks, and the most curious thing has begun, now-

The Elf has begun to _fade,_ slowly, as though the apparition process has merely been agonisingly stretched out.

First, his bare, dirty feet are vanishing into nothing, but it is not peaceful-

Not a gentle fad into nothing.

It is violent, folding terribly  _in_ until there is nothing that remains- 

Next, his knobbly legs and knees.

“He is near, Sir. Dobby found out where - Master Malfoy spoke of, Sir. Cedric Sir must go to him, must get him away. Harry Potter must live. And _Cedric Sir_ must live, and must find.”

Cedric’s mind races, and he is more alert now than he can recall being, even before the Manor.

“Harry’s here?” he says, disbelief, gratitude, chasing themselves over in his mouth.

The Elf nods frantically – and shudders.

His fingers seem to crumble now, and Cedric knows where they are going-

Knows the cold hand, and wand, that awaits them.

“Dobby,” Cedric says, and he only watches, dread settling in his chest, as the hand he holds tightly between his own fingers fades, too. “You must live, too.” He is shaking, now, all of him. “You did this for Harry. For _me_.”

And it is stunning.

Unprecedented.

It is perplexing and it is befuddling and Cedric does not  _understand_ - 

“Cedric Sir did for Dobby,” the Elf murmurs. “So much, Sir.”

Cedric laughs without a shred of humour, and his eyes are hot, prickling.

“Dobby, I haven’t done anything for you,” he says, guilt weighing on his every word because Merlin, he _should have_.

“But Cedric Sir has,” Dobby insists, though his words are as weak as his form, now, and what is left of him is shaking, contorted, and it is unbearable to witness, but Cedric cannot look away.

“Dobby,” Cedric says, and desperately, he wishes for his wand-

For his magic to surge in his veins, to _do s_ omething.

“Cedric Sir asked Dobby’s name,” Dobby says, and his genuine wonderment saturates his tone- and Cedric’s heart aches, and he wants to tell him that Merlin, that isn’t anything at all- isn’t kindness, isn’t even politeness, isn’t half as much as what this brilliant creature deserves-

But he is not fast enough.

For all that Dobby has done for him, he is not fast enough. 

His friend is slipping – through the air, through space, through his fingers. 

His friend, in a beat, is gone.  

* * *

 

Four things happen, now.

Four things, in entirely different places, and perhaps any one of them, on their own, might not be so terribly bitter, nor so sweet.

The trouble, naturally, _damningly_ , is that they happen all at once.

_One._

An incensed Lucius Malfoy, in search of his best goblet and his troublesome son, catches something most peculiar out of the very corner of his eye:

Draco, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, emerging from the cellar with a frown crinkling his features and his wand alight and murmuring Cedric Diggory’s name under his own breath, only faintly.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Lucius demands, closing the distance between them with a sharp crack of his wand, and the boy jerks backward, startled.

He does not answer.

Lucius snarls.

“Don’t be _petulant_. What’s the matter with you? You insist that we release Cedric Diggory- never-mind the damage that I need not remind you the boy might do to _your_ family were he allowed to simply leave- and now, you take the goblet intended for the Dark Lord himself to spite your father, do you?”

“Goblet?” Draco says, faintly, as though he is dreaming.

As though he is-

Lucius straightens, on guard.  

It has been a number of years since he last worked closely with the Dark Lord.

Still, it has not been long enough yet that he’s forgotten what a man cursed looks like- _sounds_ like.

Abruptly, he grasps his son’s chin in his hand, twists his face this way and that, that he might better observe his eyes- the damning fog that coats them.

“You,” he grits his teeth. “You were bewitched.”

_Rage –_

It courses through his veins, envelopes his mind, sees him crushing Draco’s chin between his fingers-

Rage, that anybody dared to target his son.

Rage, that his son was foolish enough to allow himself to be so corrupted.

“You were bewitched to steal the goblet,” Lucius says tightly. “Answer me.”

“Goblet?”

He only blinks blankly back, and Lucius throws up his hands-

“Then what?” he snarls. “For what purpose-”

He stops.

“You wanted Cedric Diggory to be released,” he says slowly.

And that had been most peculiar.

That had been most _unlike_ Draco.

Because, of course, it had _not_ been.

And that can only mean one thing.

With a sharp swirl of robes and the brisk clicking of shoes on polished floors, Lucius is marching to the dining hall, to where the Elf has been left with the prisoner-

The dining hall, where now, there is only the Elf, shuddering on the carpet like the miserable creature it is, and Lucius cannot _breathe_ -

Only the _blasted_ Elf.

“Draco,” he says, _calm._ “You were cursed to rescue Cedric Diggory. Weren’t you?”

The boy is spluttering behind him, now, choking-

“Weren’t you?” Lucius says, and still, his son says nothing, and he cannot abide it, cannot afford it, “Merlin, I haven’t the time for this nonsense.” He hisses, and his wand is in his hand, now- in his hand, and trained squarely on Draco, and it does not waver. “ _Crucio._ ”

He is screaming.

Shrieking, really.

It is unbecoming, and a good deal more dramatic than the Diggory boy’s antics, under the same curse.

Lucius sighs, lowers his wand-

The shrieking is only displaced by crying, to his supreme distaste.

“Weren’t you?” he repeats the question, thickly, through clenched teeth.

And Draco-

Predictably, _terribly_ -

Nods.

_Two._

Severus Snape, contrary to his instructions, but with perfect fidelity to his own instincts, is watching Ron Weasley, wand at the ready- not that the Weasley boy can see him here, concealed by a rather nifty cloaking spell. Not, even, that he would need the assistance of the spell, to go unnoticed by this particular subject.

But he is not alone, and that is troublesome.

Viktor Krum sits at his side, murmuring something unintelligible about Headmaster Karkaroff in that ridiculous accent of his.

Fleur Delacour leans in to hear it better.

No matter, no matter –

He need only wait until their backs are turned.

_Three._

Lord Voldemort closes his eyes.

It is easier, when he does, to hear, with perfect clarity, what they are thinking.

Harry Potter, that is, and Tom Riddle.

The Potter boy is easy.

 _His_ mind has been a practical nuisance to the Dark Lord’s, of late.

It has not ceased its petulant _shouting_ , rather resembling a child indulging in a tantrum.

A child, more’s the pity, too far away to silence with a scolding, or a killing curse.

As fortune would have it, however, the shouting has, at least for the most part, been somewhat useful.

Potter’s singular focus on Cedric Diggory has been, in equal measure, tiresome and entertaining.

Importantly, it has proven the hostage’s worth.

Proven that heroism is Harry Potter’s hamartia, his pressure point-

Proven that he is pressing in precisely the right place.

His Horcrux is more challenging to read.

More guarded, conservative, in his thinking, as Lord Voldemort should hope he might be.

Certainly, he has the good sense to practice Occlumency when in close proximity.

His _arrogance,_ however, prevents him from contemplating that he really ought to exercise caution, always.

He thinks that he is the Dark Lord – Lord Voldemort sees it in his mind, clearer than anything.

He’s boasted as much, drawled it in a tone dripping with condescension.

Still, there are gaps in his mind.

Gaps that Lord Voldemort can filter through, press and prod and pull at, even now-  

An idle thought here, an image, there.

Mostly, they are concerned with _her._

The plain-looking one who had turned white at the mere sight of him, had trembled in the presence of his magic –

His Horcrux thinks that she was brave, to challenge him anyway.

He is too young, naturally, to perceive her for what she is, in earnest –

A frightened girl stubborn enough to accidentally appear bold for it.

Here she is, now.

Scowling, murmuring something, desperate.

It is about Draco Malfoy.

_Good._

“Is it happening, Master? As you anticipated?”

It is Barty Crouch Junior, eager, at his side – awaiting instruction, as his blasted Horcrux ought to be.

Lord Voldemort opens his eyes.

“Crouch,” he breathes, head tilted as he surveys his servant.

He smiles.

“It is.”  

_Four._

Mr Granger, half-asleep on his porch, sudoku sliding from his lap, finds himself stumbling over his own feet in his haste to squint at the frightfully fragile husk of a strange boy sprawled across the road, his hand clasped tightly around something that Mr Granger cannot see.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI!! 
> 
> 1\. I apologise so, so profusely for this unprecedented wait. I have literally never in my life had as little free time as I have this past month, and my appalling/non-existent time management skills meant Renatus suffered as a result. I will always come back to it, though! (Though you, of course, are under no obligation to do the same!). I want to be super transparent and say that I have no intention of abandoning the fic, and if I ever do, I will certainly let you guys know so you're not left waiting for an update that won't come!  
> 2\. I am yet to respond to all the breath-taking comments that you guys have left me since my last update - and I absolutely will do so- but for now, please accept my sincere gratitude for all the generous things you've said. This update is genuinely brought to you by virtue of your comments and encouragements. I am so moved by your engagement with this story, and these characters :')   
> 3\. I would really value your thoughts on this chapter - there's a lot going on at this point, with a bunch of different people, and not gonna lie, I am pretty nostalgic for the simpler chapters that focused on our main faves, but for the purposes of furthering the story, I feel like I have to afford the Order and LV some time, too. Let me know what your take on it is- and please let me know if the chapter feels different to previous ones - I am a little concerned I've become rusty and am strangely nervous to post!?  
> 4\. Next chapter will focus on Cedric, Harry, Tom, Hermione, and will also check in with Ron and his Champions, and will hopefully be less hectic! Hoping to smash it out SUPER SOON (next week???).
> 
> Until next time, I hope you're all well!  
> (and please remember to sleep, sleep is important and good and I feel like not enough of you are doing it ahaha)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Time: Tom, Harry, and Hermione used the Imperius Curse on Draco to compel him to return to the Manor to retrieve his father’s prisoner. Unknown to them, Dobby had learned from Draco that Lord Voldemort was anticipating a rescue attempt of some sort, and intended to set a trap for Harry. In a bid to prevent this from happening, the House Elf apparated Cedric out of the Manor, at great personal cost. Lucius used the Cruciatus Curse to learn that Draco has been bewitched to rescue Cedric when he discovered, to his horror, that the boy was missing. Meanwhile, Snape, contrary to Dumbledore’s wishes, returned to Hogwarts, intent on making Ron Weasley forget everything he knows about Professor Riddle’s true identity. Lord Voldemort, all the while, has been listening intently to Harry and Tom’s thoughts, and was perfectly aware of their plans for Malfoy.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not _saying_ I don’t think it’s working,” Ron insists, unwisely, as Fleur trains her scowl solely on him, “I just sort of thought that maybe, y’know, if it _was_ working, we would know it by now.”

This is not at all well received.

“Of course it eez working,” she hisses, slapping his wrist sharply with a deadly palm and leaning in over the courtyard table, that she won’t be overheard. “I brewed it myself.”

And Fleur Delacour’s potions always, _always,_ work perfectly.

Have, without exception, since first year- or so she’s told them one too many times since they started this whole thing.

Ron’s learned not to accuse Fleur of much.

Least of all, being humble.

“Yeah,” Ron says hastily. “And I’m sure you did a _great_ job, but-”

“Ronaldo,” Viktor cuts in, just in time, apparently – Fleur’s mouth was veering on dangerously thin – “Tracking spells are complicated, yes? It is vorking. It vill just take a little more time.”

His palm falls to Ron’s knee, squeezes alarmingly hard, but it is to comfort him, so Ron tries to pass his grimace off as a smile, of sorts.

“Thing is,” he says – uselessly, probably, “time’s the one thing we don’t have a fuck-load of, mate.”

If the world _really_ hates him, it just might be the one thing they don’t have at all.

See, Ron knows, now, what a Horcrux is.

Karkaroff was surprisingly obliging – a real solid bloke, as it turns out, as long as it’s Krum who’s asking, in confidence, of course, and Fleur’s put on a bit of the Veela Charm to warm him up, first.

An innocent question, ‘an academic one’, Krum had said, and so Karkaroff had spilled the beans to the two Champions  – plus Ron, niftily hidden under Harry’s nicked Invisibility Cloak – with an ominous kind of gusto.

No Veritaserum necessary, and thank fuck for that – if not because it’s _pretty_ illegal, than because Hermione would probably kill him herself if she found out he drugged a bloody Headmaster.

That is, if she’s-

You know.

Ron _thinks_ that she is.

She and Harry.

Mostly, he thinks it because it just seems too momentously fucked up that they could die, and Ron could just _not know._

Bollocks.

He’s known what Harry’s thinking since he was eleven, read the angry lines on Hermione’s forehead for as long- anything happened to either of them, he would know.

Would feel something.

He’d go all cold, wake up in the middle of the night with heart palpitations, weird dreams, a stroke, a vision, whatever, and he’d know.

Some of that Divination-type shit.  

Hermione always did think Divination was daft, though; fake magic.

Mum’d give her a stern talking to about that, ‘course- she swears she dreamed it, the night before Percy made Prefect, after all, reckons it’s evidence that it’s all more than a load of waffle.

Not that any of that bloody matters, because Ron _knows_ what a Horcrux is –

He knows what those words meant, burning in Professor Riddle’s classroom.

And now, he’s waiting on a fucking tracking potion bubbling uselessly in the girl’s bathroom on the second floor and guided only by Harry’s unwashed socks to find out where _You Know Who’s Horcrux_ has taken his friends.

He’s decided he always hated Professor Riddle.

Viktor furrows his eyebrows, shifts in a fraction.

“‘Fuck-load’?” he asks seriously. “This means ‘a lot’, yes?”

He says everything seriously, now.

Ron’d always thought he was that kind of bloke, anyway.

Thing is, he’d been wrong.

Krum was nothing if not up for a laugh, before.

But now they know what a Horcrux is, and he has not stopped glowering at nobody in particular, letting out moody huffs here and there and cursing Professor Riddle under his breath.

He’s more worried about Hermione than Ron is, to the point Ron feels guilty about it – like he should up his game, burst into tears here and there, just to show Viktor that he cares too.

Fleur winds her arms tight across her chest and huffs, irritable.

“It eez a crude term,” she says coolly. “Not worth learning.”

Ron resists the childish, though not unfounded, urge to poke his tongue out at her.

“Vell, I know that ve do not ‘ave a ‘fuck-load’ of time. But ‘Arry and ‘Ermiown-ninny are strong. They vill be alright until ve find them.” Viktor inhales sharply. “They must be. The awful Professor cannot get away vith this.”

“Sure, they’re strong. You know who’s stronger, though?” Ron bursts, voice too high, and cracking, just in case he wasn’t looking _quite_ attractive enough right about now, “Ha! Answer’s in the question, isn’t it? _You Know Fucking Who,_ that’s who!”

“Professor Riddle iz not You Know Who,” Fleur says at once. “An ‘Orcrux is not as powerful as ze original being, remember?”

“Oh, sure,” Ron says weakly. “As long as he’s a watered-down version, I guess it’s okay!”  

“Ronaldo,” Viktor says, “Enough. You know ve are as anxious as you to find them. If anything ‘as ‘appened to ‘Ermiown-ninny-” he swallows, the muscles in his throat – because Viktor’s got muscles bloody everywhere, of course there are visible muscles in his _throat_ – go tense. “But ve are going to find them.”

“Sorry,” Ron mumbles. “S’not your fault. I’d be toast if it wasn’t for both of you. Fleur, I know your potion’s working. I’m being a prat.”

Fleur’s face softens.

“It vill not be long now,” she says gently –

She frowns.

“What’ve I done now?” Ron groans, but Krum is doing it too, now, eyes darkened, fingers braced on his wand, the way they were when he entered the Pitch with the fucking dragon in it.

They look at each other, now, communicating something serious in the silent.

“What is it?” he says, quieter, now, something cold tugging at his chest.

“Remain calm,” Krum murmurs. “Do not turn around.”

“Why?” Ron says, too bloody loudly, and they are both glaring at him for it.

He lowers his voice to a whisper.

“What’s going on?”

His own hand fumbles in his robes for his wand, finding, instead, a small collection of Chocolate Frog wrappers that crunch obnoxiously upon contact.

He winces.

“Hush,” Fleur says, and her eyes are bright, alert,  her breath tickling his neck, “We are being watched.”

* * *

 

Three raps, frantic, sound on the door of the dark little room that Harry shares with Tom Riddle.

It’s not Hermione – the gentle rumbling of boiling water, the clink of a cup finding its place on a saucer in the kitchen, lets him know she’s still busily sorting them some tea, and besides, she just walks in, now.

There’s no sense in her knocking.

They’re well past the place of embarrassment, all things considered.

It has been too tense, too awful a time, for things like etiquette to matter all that much. Professor Riddle- Tom, Voldemort, whatever- always changes in the bathroom anyway, so he’s never anything but modest in this room, covered head to toe.

“Boys.”

Mr Granger, then.

He’s in a right state, judging by the high, grating edge to his voice.

Something dreadful on the news, perhaps; a garden pot knocked over by some thoughtless children in the garden, a good natured neighbour missing her cat.

Mr Granger’s not one to run into any shortage of empathy where those kind of things are concerned.

Whatever it is, Harry is not even remotely in the mood to feign any degree of concern.

He is too jaded, too _cold_ , too busy tearing himself open from the inside out over and over as he waits, just _waits,_ on Draco Malfoy to do the job he’s compelled him to do with a curse so invasive, wrong, that it is branded in theory and law as ‘ _Unforgiveable’,_ and he hates himself for it, and it will only be alright if it works, if it makes Cedric safe-

Tom, accomplished feigner-of-interest as he is, appears to share Harry’s reluctance to give a fuck, on this particular occasion.

They share a glance – a startlingly sympathetic one, the same averseness twisting his features.

“Mr Granger!” Tom calls back warmly, in stark contrast to his expression. “How may we assist?”

He _sounds_ positively delighted, eager, even as he rolls his eyes at Harry.  

_Fucking psychopath._

At his cue, Mr Granger opens the door.

“You’ll never believe it,” he is saying, and Harry has already stopped listening, though he nods at the man, hoping his eyes are appropriately wide. “He was just where you all appeared – just the _same_ place as the three of you turned up, can you imagine! He looks terribly unwell. I’m going to call an ambulance. Do get him some water, in the mean time, won’t you? Awfully dazed- I think he might be concussed. And so thin-”

“Kind of you,” Tom replies, amusement tugging at his lip, “To look after the local drunks. Truly a Good Samaritan.”

“He’s not,” Mr Granger insists. “Local, I mean. I don’t think he’s a drunk, either. I think someone might have done something to him, even. Really looks unwell, and petrified to boot-”

A piercing sound swallows the rest of his words -

Shattering china, and a gasp to match it.

_Hermione._

Harry’s chest is thundering in its apprehension, ears straining to hear more, hear why.

He glances, inadvertent, at Tom.

The wizard, though, is not looking at him.

His eyes are very dark, more than normal, his mouth is curved into an unpleasant sort of grimace –

It’s enough to let Harry know that he should probably definitely be worried.

Even as Mr Granger turns his head, alarmed, calling after his daughter, Tom is passing him, wand at hand, though Harry hadn’t seen him pause to draw it.

“Darling?” Mr Granger says, and he and Harry are following Tom to the kitchen, now, fingers dancing at the head of his own wand-

“Harry,” Hermione calls, roughly, his name cracking in her throat. “Merlin, Harry…”

She is doubled over against the kitchen counter, an elegant little tea cup, baby blue, in jagged pieces that blink up at them from the floor where they soak in the messy puddle warm brown of spilled tea, telling the story of the sound that had prompted them to come running.

 _Frozen_ ; hand cupping her mouth, tight, as though to muffle a scream, and she is pale _,_ as though she’s seen –

“Oh,” she whispers.

She is not talking to him, to any of them.

She is looking at something in the doorway – some _one,_ slumped over, absolutely reeking of dirt and damp, and entirely consumed by a thick blanket, courtesy, Harry supposes, of Mr Granger.

“Oh, thank god,” she is saying, and she closes her eyes, and when she drops her hand, he sees that her mouth is trembling terribly.

He sees, too, that she is crying. 

Sees Tom, beside her, face utterly unreadable and wand trained on the offending figure.  

His other hand –

It’s at the small of Hermione’s back.

Her back _,_ like he’s comforting her, which is fucking bizarre-

 “Harry,” she says again, insistent, this time, but she won’t say a word more.

 “Hermione?” Mr Granger says, hesitant. “Are you alright? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for our guest to shock you. Only, I couldn’t leave him out there.”

“Hermione?”

It is the person at the door, this time.

Hunched over, still, swimming in that hideous blanket, he speaks.

And it’s scarcely a whisper, but he says her name like he knows it.

Harry’s heart stops.

Just stops, because he _knows_ that voice.

Knows it in his sleep; fucking dreams in it, thinks in it, just to keep it close, keep _him_ close, and now-

Now, it has overcome him.

 _Assaulted_ him.

His mind, his chest, stomach, throat, they are _dazed_ by it, numb and aching and utterly _struck_ like a well-cast _Stupefy,_ and he can’t move, which is the sickest sort of joke because he has never needed to cross a room more urgently in his life, and-

“Cedric?” he says, hesitant, cautious, because Merlin, he has dreamed it too much to accept it so readily now, and his voice sounds so embarrassingly peculiar, so stupidly loud to his own ears, but – “Cedric, is it…is it really-”

His feet are heavy, clumsy, as he drags them across the room, and he hates them, because they are taking far too long, and Mr Granger is saying something, asking if they know this poor boy –

The boy in the blanket looks up.

He looks up, and the makeshift hood that has concealed his face from them falls aside easily –

 _Cedric Diggory_ looks up.

And it is haunting.

Haunting, how sharp his cheekbones are, now, how thin his cheeks, how marred with bruises his skin, how unruly his hair, but his _eyes_ -

Cedric looks up, and Harry is on his knees, and they hurt, because he does not mean to sink to them; he falls, instead, unceremonious, unable to hold himself upright anymore, and he is kneeling at Cedric’s feet, and his cheeks feel wet, now, throat swollen, and he should feel mortified, because there is nothing remotely acceptable or attractive about sobbing on the kitchen floor in front of the boy who has nearly died to save you, but Harry seems to lack the capacity, now.

He is not in control of what he feels, what he does, now.

“Harry,” Cedric murmurs, and Harry’s heart contracts painfully, because he is too quiet, too hoarse, but his eyes are bright, still, and that is how he knows this is _real-_

“It worked,” he breathes, and he is actually _laughing,_ now, Merlin knows why. “It worked, fuck, Cedric, it worked and-”

Thank fuck for Draco Malfoy, thank _fuck_ for him.

He’s not here, which is weird.

He worked fast, which is weirder.

But Merlin, who _cares_ -

And Harry does not mean to stand, now.

Honestly, he’s amazed he’s even able to manage it.

He does not mean to step closer, so that he can feel the warm tremors that course, ragged, through the other boy’s torso as he breathes, in, out;

So that he can hear each inhale and exhale in turn like the soothing tick of a clock in the night-time, see the dry cracks that have so rudely made themselves at home on his lips, place a palm on his face and wince at the sharp bones that meet it there under cheeks too fucking thin.

“I’m so sorry,” he says coarsely, and he wants to say it again, he really should say it again, because this is all his fault-

“Harry,” Cedric says, before he has the chance, and Harry’s chest jolts at the sound of it, and he does not know if he can’t breathe, or if it is just that he is at last breathing again, for the first in a long time.

Cedric smiles.

He smiles, and it is too real, too just as it has always been, and Harry is _done._

He does not-

Fuck.

He does not _mean_ to kiss him.

He does not mean to lean forward, past the point of ‘too close’, past the point a good friend should go, and part his lips over Cedric Diggory’s; close them, gentle, but _firm_ , as though he means to keep them there, safely enveloped in his own for the foreseeable future.

He does not mean for the palm of his hand to make itself at home in the small of his back; for it to press in, draw him closer.

If he’d any sense or self respect, he’d at least have waited for them to be alone.

For Cedric to be well-rested and healed and in some small sense healthy again, waited for some semblance of an indication that Cedric might actually be _interested_.

But Harry is not in control of what he feels, what he does.

Harry is standing in the Granger’s kitchen, entwined with Cedric Diggory under a too-warm blanket and kissing him fervently, as though he is apologising for everything that he did not stop in time, did not say in time.

And what is remarkable, _impossible_ , is that Cedric Diggory is kissing him back.

They do not stop.

Not when Mr Granger clears his throat.

Not when Hermione makes a sound a little like a sob and a little like a laugh.

Not when her spilled tea trickles far enough down the kitchen to dampen his shoes.  

* * *

 

“Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Ron starts, the regrettably familiar drawl disrupting, for a second, the chaotic panic that had set in his chest the moment Fleur’s eyes had gone narrow.

The Potions Professor strikes a daunting figure as he steps into the darkening courtyard; hair dripping over his eyes, all black robes wisping around his form where the wind blows them like a glorified Dementor.

Mind you, the bloke’s sour face could make a bloody children’s playground feel menacing.

He glances at Fleur, at Viktor, befuddled.

Shit as it is, as ever, to see Snape’s ugly mug, Ron doubts anyone’d be watching them with him around.

He’s too nosy, have them written up for detention in a second flat.

But Ron takes in the guarded frame to Viktor’s features, the flare of his nostrils.

His hand is still on his wand.

Which means –

Bloody hell, _think,_ Ron-

Snape was the one watching.

Hiding, watching – listening, probably.

Ron’s not exactly _surprised._

It’d hardly be wildly out of character of him.

How many times has this genuinely weird bloke been lurking behind the corridor corner at precisely the wrong moment?

Doesn’t warrant the looks on their faces.

Then again, maybe it does, this time.

He’s a Death Eater, after all.

A bloody Death Eater, and he knows about the Horcrux.

As far as Ron knows, he’s the _only_ one who knows, aside from Dumbledore.

Ron doesn’t know what that makes him.

The silence is stretching uncomfortably thin by the time he gets it together enough to clear his throat.

“Ten points?” he croaks. “I haven’t done anything!”

“Not yet,” Snape says smoothly. “But you will. You see, Weasley, curfew commences in five minutes from now. The Gryffindor Common Room is ten minutes away. Unless you plan on defying logic and time, you’re five minutes away from being in breach.”

Ron blinks, furious.

“You still can’t take points before I’ve done anything,” he says heatedly. “That’s bull-”

“Language,” Snape cuts, brows lifted, warning. “Unless you want to make it a detention, Weasley.”

_Dickhead._

Ron swallows, hard; nods.

“Sir.”

Snape’s lips are pursed, strained, as though he’s trying terribly hard not to be sick.

“I’ll escort you to your Common Room,” he says curtly. “See that you don’t get yourself _lost_ on the way.”

“But Sir-” Ron casts a look at Fleur, Krum.

Fleur is coiled, tense, watching the Professor with a distinctly sharp line to her lip.

She does not trust him.

And she’s loads smarter than Ron.

More to the point, she doesn’t hate Snape just because he’s Snape.

Which means he’s not just being a pratty Professor.

Ron can virtually hear his blood rushing to his head, shouting in his ears some warning, too vague and too late to be helpful.

“ _Today_ , Mr Weasley.”

“Uh-”

He doesn’t want to.

There is, though, that pesky matter of Snape being a Professor capable of serving up detentions and expulsions as he sees fit.

“’e is coming,” Fleur says, before Ron can think of an excuse that won’t get him whacked over the head, and his heart sinks, but – “we all are.”

Fleur stands up, Viktor right behind him, and quick as it had sunk, Ron’s chest lifts up.

 “No need,” Snape says crisply. “You ought to return to your quarters, both of you. After the unfortunate incident concerning Mr Diggory, we are all anxious to ensure our Champions are safe.”

“No,” Viktor says simply, and fuck, the _balls_ on this guy, Snape’s _face_ -

Ron snorts, unable and unminded to hide his delight.  

“No?” Snape says frostily, eyebrows raised, and those beetle eyes of his are fixed on Viktor, pouring into them, waiting for the boy to fix his mistake, apologise.

It’d have worked on Ron.

Harry, even.

But Viktor’s been hand-picked and prodded and trained by Igor Karkaroff; faced off the best in the world in the sky, even as they hissed and booed and clenched their teeth –

 _Viktor_ shrugs.

“No,” he says it again, easy, like it’s nothing.

Snape, predictably, is infuriated.

“You want to mind your tone with me,” he says, voice too low for comfort. “You might be a famous Quidditch player outside these walls – you may be a Champion among your friends, your _school._ But here, you are no more than a petulant exchange student, and you are to follow the instructions you are given.” He inhales sharply, surveys him with a cruel, evaluative eye. “Surely Headmaster Karkaroff has taught you discipline? He must be terribly disappointed in you…Mr Krum.”

“Headmaster Karkaroff taught me many things, Sir,” Viktor says calmly. “Most important, he taught me manners.”

“I’d never have guessed,” Snape remarks damningly, but Viktor could care less.

“But of course!” Viktor says, and he smiles, now, feigns a particularly bright one. “After all, manners are vat distinguish us from beasts.”

“Naturally,” Snape says- guarded.

Because Viktor is getting at something, and he knows it.

He just doesn’t know _what_ yet.

“Eavesdropping, for example,” Viktor says, and Snape’s face is abruptly blank, now- “Or- how you say - _spying_. Professor Karkaroff has taught us better, at Durmstrang. But perhaps things are different in England.” He cocks his head. “Still, I do not think my ‘Eadmaster would appreciate Hogwarts staff spying on ‘is Champion. I do not think Madam Maxime would appreciate it, either.”

“Indeed,” Fleur says, and, standing, coy, at Ron’s side, Viktor at the other, Ron figures he may have accidentally acquired some pretty top-quality bodyguards here. “She vould be most distressed.”

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Snape says tiredly.  

“You vere standing behind ze corner of ze courtyard,” Fleur says, no nonsense. “‘Iding from us. Listening. Why?”

“An interesting story,” Snape says smoothly. “Although I can’t imagine why on earth I’d be at all inclined to do so. Rest assured, I am utterly uninterested in anything the three of you could possibly be gossiping about.”

“Yeah?” Ron says – and he blames this rush of bravado, this self-destructive urge to be stupidly confrontational, on the dare-devil sort of vibe that comes with being flanked by Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour, for what he says next. “Not even Horcruxes, Professor?”

Bloody hell.

If Ron thought Snape looked grossly pallid before-

“What?” Snape says, sharp, teeth grit hard, a forced brand of calm.

Emboldened, and with a nervous glance at Viktor, he goes on.

“You heard me,” he says, hoping to Merlin he sounds more confident than he feels. “We know everything.”

“We?” Snape says, _incensed_ , and his eyes flash to Viktor, to Fleur. “You stupid, stupid boy.”

He snarls, now, hand at his hip, at his wand.

Bloody brilliant.

“You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“Leave him alone,” Fleur shifts so that she is just slightly in front of him, and Ron wants to die just a little bit because fuck, he really is cowering behind a pretty French girl for cover from his Potions teacher.

Professor Snape isn’t particularly daunted.

“Foolish girl. Move.”

Viktor raises his own wand, now.

“Or vat? You cannot threaten _us_ with detention, _Sir_ ,” he says conversationally. 

Snape does not respond.

Not with words, anyway.

He does make some, unpleasant sort of noise, though, a low, angry hiss, like a bloody snake-

His wand tears through the air in a jagged pattern, mouth open-

“ _Oblivi-”_

Oh, _fuck._

_Obliviate._

He wants to make them forget.

What, that he was spying?

That they know what a Horcrux is?

Two birds, one stone, probably.

 _Protego,_ he should say, that should do the trick.

Yeah, _protego;_ only, his fingers are damp on his wand, and his mouth is so dry he only croaks when he tries to cast it-

 _You can’t use magic against a teacher,_ Hermione, indignant, says in her head.

Then,

 _Don’t be daft, Ronald. Cast it, and quickly-_ her, again, and he does not know which she would really say, now-

“Professor Snape?”

A loud voice, a welcome one, stops the curse before it comes.

“Is tha’ you?” Hagrid lowers his brows as he enters the courtyard, his huge, unruly frame casting a shadow over Snape’s.

Ron wants to hug him.

“Hagrid!”

“Alrigh’ Ron,” Hagrid nods, though he watches Snape, still, wary. “I was just lookin’ for yer. Wasn’t expectin’ to you see yer here, Snape.”

“Nor I you,” Snape says, more venomously than called for, in Ron’s opinion.

“Well,” Hagrid coughs, and when he speaks again, it is louder, commanding authority that Ron hopes to Merlin he has, in actuality, some semblance of, “I’m here fer Ron.”

Oh _fuck_ yes he is. 

“Isn’t that a coincidence,” Snape says icily. “As am I.”

“Well, I’m ‘appy to let you off the hook.”

“Mm,” Snape muses. “You are, are you?”

He steps past Ron, now- which is something of a bloody relief.

Hagrid’s much more capable of holding his own than Ron is- least, that’s what his general stature would suggest.

“Well,” he says, voice clipped, mechanical, like it is in class when he wants to be sure they’re getting every dull word, “benevolent, Hagrid, as your offer is, it is unnecessary. We were just on our-”

He stops.

It’s not for suspense, and that’s what makes Ron lean in, squint.

He stops ‘cause he’s become suddenly occupied, doubling over his wrist and gripping it with his fingers, face all screwed up unpleasantly like he’s drawn the short straw out of a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.

His wrist, and that’s-

_The Dark Mark._

It’s Hermione’s voice that says it, loud in his ear so he can’t miss it.

And dad’s told him how those worked, back in the War.

How they’re used to send messages, between them- to summon.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” he says, and the dread makes the air colder than it really is. “You Know Who.”

* * *

 

The Granger’s living room has never been quite so saturated with _light_.

The brilliant residue of the setting sun’s burnt orange, red, has the sofa looking rather dreamily pink; envelopes Harry and Cedric where they sit upon it, so that they look closer to angels than boys.

Hermione closes her eyes, if only to take a moment to be sure that she remembers it properly; to take a moment to _check_ that this is more than some hazy idyllic daydream.

_Cedric is alive._

And she knew that, of course, in a technical sense: Malfoy had confirmed it under the influence of the Imperius Curse, and that had been enough, at least, to put at bay the doubt that prickled at her mind, that told her that Tom Riddle stood to gain from their belief that there was some chance that he was still alright, could still be rescued; that he might be selling them the story in exchange for their compliance.

But Cedric is _alive_ , and seeing it is something different to hearing it; is dizzying.

Because he is sitting on her sofa in her father’s sweatshirt, weak herbal tea steaming on his knee and the crusts of a hastily constructed ham sandwich peppering the plate her father had thrust in his direction a half hour ago.

He is murmuring wholly unnecessary apologies and thank yous to her father, to her, fingers agitated, fiddling with the teaspoon that rests in his teacup.

They’ve not discussed it, yet.

The elephant, or rather elephants, that sit heavy in the room with them.

The fact that Cedric has been subject, repeatedly, to the Cruciatus Curse.

The fact that this was done solely for the purpose of hurting Harry, of drawing him out.

The fact that it worked; that they had done Unforgiveable things to get him out.

The fact that they were frightened, paralytically so, that it would not be enough.

It is enough, for now, that he is alive.

And, at last, it is as though Harry is, too.

It is clear, when she observes him, now.

So clear that before, he had only been surviving – and even then, it had only been for Cedric.

His eyes are greener, blue, even, in parts, and warm in this stunning light.

He is laughing at something her father has said, though his gaze has not strayed from Cedric since it found him in the kitchen.

His hand rests on the other boy’s knee, soft, but sure.

He –

Loves him.

 _Of course_ he loves him.

Hermione ought to have known it.

If she’d been paying attention, and she’d rather flattered herself with the thought that she had been, she certainly would have.

Still, it is so entirely the case that technical knowledge is no substitute for witnessing it to be true.

The way he kissed him -

It was nothing like she and Viktor.

Nothing like the tentative pleasantness, the eager hastening, the gentle laughter that came from low in his throat.

Harry kissed Cedric _frantically,_ as though he might crumble into the air at a moment’s notice; as though there was nothing in the world more important than that he kiss this boy, in this kitchen.

He kissed him recklessly, guiltily, even, and Hermione had averted her eyes a beat too late, chest stirring with the most peculiar sort of sadness.

She kicks herself, now.

For the first in what feels like an agonisingly long time, she’s nothing to feel remotely sad about.

Cedric is alive and well under her parents’ roof, and Harry has plucked up the courage to show him precisely how fiercely he was missed, was fought for.

It is only-

But Merlin, of course it’s him.

Tom Riddle’s shadow is cast, conspicuous, across the floor, mirrors his tightly crossed arms, the downward tilt of his head.

His face, though, casts the greater shadow over Hermione’s tranquillity at this moment.

It is perfectly mild, unfettered by any apparent anxiety, and unblessed by any apparent happiness.

It is –

Deliberate.

She is _sure_ of it.

And it should not matter.

Except for one thing, she would resolve to ignore it.

The one thing, being, of course, ever so irritatingly troubling.

Hermione wishes she’d not noticed it.

Certainly, she’d not glanced at him, earlier, in the kitchen, she would be none the wiser.

But she did, and so she noticed.

A frown: jaw slack, brows knitted in.

He had been – _perplexed._

Concerned.

And because of it, her stomach is knotted, sick.

Because Merlin, if Tom Riddle is concerned, there is a good chance that You Know Who is the reason why.

If Tom Riddle is concerned, there is a good chance that she ought to be petrified.

* * *

 

He is, at last, alone in the bedroom when Hermione decides to ask him the question that has been burning on her tongue like a cigarette since this evening.

He only went in to fetch his jumper, but she’s not minded to wait a minute longer.

He jolts, when she does, apparently having failed to register her presence by the door.

“What’s the matter?”

A rare sense of satisfaction settles in her stomach, though she tries to keep it from spreading to her face, lest it might show a little _too_ much.

She’s no desire to provoke his pride on this particular occasion.

 “Yes, of course, come in, why don’t you,” he says derisively, and when he tilts his head to look at her, his features are maddeningly composed, as ever – eyebrows lifted coolly, lips pursed, as though he is thinking about something terribly intelligent and terribly entertaining all at once.

“This is _my_ house,” Hermione reminds him, folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t need an invitation in. Are you going to answer my question?”

“If you ask it better,” he says with a shrug. “Perhaps.”

“Ask it better?”

Hermione breathes in, too hard, too long, in the sincere, albeit futile, hope that it might distract her from how supremely infuriating he is, even now.

She’s become determined not to give him the satisfaction, though that determination has not, thus far, amounted to much.

“Tell me, then,” she says, lightly as she can manage, and she steps inside, now, “What is it that’s so inadequate about the question ‘what’s the matter?’”

His mouth has that curve to it, and it is positively maddening, because she knows what it means-

Because Professor Riddle had worn it well, and she doesn’t care to see it again now, on _him_ , if not because it is a symptom of his arrogance, then because it is unjustly _confusing_ to her daft, racing heart.

“You mean aside from the fact that it is woefully vague?” he suggests pleasantly, and she cannot help but accept his blatant invitation to _scowl,_ now. “I’ve no idea what it is you want from me, Hermione. Do you want me to catalogue the problems of the world for you? Tell you about the impending fall of the British Galleon- the invariably tokenistic nature of the inquiry into the poor working conditions of Gringotts Goblins, the way the Muggles are destroying their planet with all their fanciful little mines and we will spend forever cleaning up their messes for them?”

She doesn’t, of course, though any one of those things, on any other day, might have captured her attentions aptly-

But he is not finished.

He is also close.

He is always close, and she always _notices._

And because it is him, she knows that he does it on purpose.

She knows because it _has_ to be deliberate: the slow, poised manner in which he comes to stand by her-

Lazily, magnetically.  

Not so proximate as to draw attention, yet somehow, invariably, close enough that she finds herself caught in the colours of his eyes, how strikingly different they are in the light, depending on how you look at them.  

How they have this unnerving effect of making him look like a far better person than he is.

“Or,” he muses delicately, “are you inquiring after my - _emotional_ state?”

He is amused, and, in fairness, perhaps he ought to.

The prospect of Tom Riddle having any emotional state to speak of at all is enough to make even Hermione laugh.

“Or somebody else’s, perhaps? Potter, your father?”

“Right,” she says irritably. “How unreasonable of me to assume that, given the circumstances, you might understand that I don’t really give a damn about anything other than why you looked so- _bothered,_ when you saw Cedric here. Like it wasn’t what we planned.”

Tom laughs, now- only once, and it is strained, and that is how she knows that she is right.

Something is _off._

Wrong, somehow.

Tom looks at her, for a moment, only blinking.

Studying her is more like it-  as though he has not quite yet decided whether she is somebody worth answering.

She shifts in her jeans, suddenly uncomfortably hot.

“Close the door,” he says at last.

“Sorry?”

Tom shoots her an exasperated look.

“Are you going to do it or not?”

“Why do you want me to close the door, Tom?” she says, and she knows that he can hear the apprehensive edge to her tone- probably, as he wanted- and yet his mouth tugs down, as though he is displeased.

 _Hurt,_ even.

“Because,” he says thickly, “Potter is outside with his little boyfriend at present, and, mercifully, enjoying a break from his tiresome bout of depression. I for one would rather not set him off. He might do something… _reckless._ ”

Hermione swallows, hard; reaches behind her for the knob.

The door closes with a low creak, leaving them in relative darkness.

Her tongue traces, nervous, over her lip.

“Alright,” she breathes. “Door closed, then.”

She shifts- into _him_ , apparently, her arm brushing his, and it is something to do with the shadows, the not-seeing, that sends a thousand shivers rippling across her skin where it touches his.

She coughs.

“You should cast _lumos._ ”

She’s left her wand by the coffee table, and he doesn’t need his.

A beat; a fumble, clumsy, fingers dancing over fingers, jumping away just as fast.

“What?” Tom murmurs distractedly.

“Oh, never-mind,” she says impatiently, searching in the dark-

She finds the lamp by the bed-side table, clicks it on.

He screws up his face, as though had he not, she would not have registered his contempt for the quintessentially ‘muggle’ nature of the act.

She raises her chin, defiant.

 “Tell me, Tom.”

“Mm.” He blinks, adjusting to the light. Then, he tilts his head. “Tell me, why were you crying?”

Now it is Hermione’s turn to say ‘what’.  

“Why,” Tom repeats, “did you cry this morning, when you saw Diggory?”  

“I didn’t-” she splutters, though, she supposes, she did. “What on earth has this got to do with anything?”

For a moment, he does not say anything.

Then, simply-

“I don’t understand.”

He doesn’t look particularly as though he is laughing at her, though he is observing her rather intently; his pupils dark and his mouth lightly parted, waiting.

Still, she is at once _angry,_ fuming because he is, nonetheless.

He thinks she is weak; emotional, and therefore utterly illogical.

“Well excuse me, then,” she says hotly. “Please, excuse me for caring about my friends- for having _feelings._ I don’t expect you to understand, but don’t you dare tell me that- that crying is a waste of time, obviously it is, or-”

“Is that why, then?” he says, and there is no cynical edge to his tone, this time. “You were crying because- you care about your friends?”

He crinkles his brow.

“I-” she hesitates, still caught in being quite appalled by his line of questioning. After all, she is here to interrogate _him_.

Then,

“Are you in love with him?” Tom says abruptly, and she catches her breath in such a similar manner that she just nearly chokes on it.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Potter,” he says, brazen, and undeterred by her horror-struck expression, more’s the pity. “It is obvious that you care for him, after all. You are troubled, are you not, by his affections for Diggory?”

“ _No_ ,” Hermione says, adamant and hasty to clarify the record on this rather ridiculous point. “No, of course I’m not troubled, and I’m certainly not in love! I’m- well, I’m _happy_ for him, for both of them. Cedric is lovely, and Harry has been my friend since first year, and-” she pauses, and it clicks in her head.

She frowns.

“You thought that I was crying because I was _upset_ that Cedric was here? Upset that he was safe?” She laughs once, and her disbelief, anger, renders it a harsh sound indeed. “I was happy. I thought he might be dead, or-” she shakes her head. “I was _relieved._ Merlin – what’s not to understand about that?”

Tom straightens, his eyes averting from hers, at last, and it feels a little like a sting, the way they fix onto the door behind her.

 “Right,” he says oddly. “Good, I suppose.”

“Good?” she says, perplexed. “What on earth is this about, Tom?”

He is terribly pale, save for his cheeks- unnervingly flushed.

He sniffs.

“No matter.” He dips his head, though he will not look at her, still. “You asked me what the matter is. I think you already know.”

Hermione swallows.

She does not want to change the subject-

Which is nonsensical, given that he is, at last, answering the question that she came to him with.

She wants to press harder, to understand why in the world he felt compelled to ask her if she was _in love with Harry,_ to understand how dreadful, empty, his own life must have been, for him to be so entirely confounded by the concept of crying out of an abundance of happiness-

But it is not important.

Not like this is.

She nods.

“It was too easy,” she murmurs heavily. “Cedric arrived too quickly, and Draco wasn’t with him. He was You Know Who’s prisoner- I can’t imagine he would be so unguarded.”

“You can’t imagine correctly,” Tom says, a cocktail of pride and irritation colouring his tone. “Diggory was a trap for Potter. His very purpose was to lure him in. Lord Voldemort knows that the boy is not alone. He would be foolish to discount the possibility that I might assist him.”

“And foolish not to plan for it,” Hermione says, and the cold, dark thing that has been curled like a fist in her chest begins to sink. “If you thought to use Malfoy, it almost certainly would have crossed your older counterpart’s mind.”

“Quite so.” Tom leans in, eyes falling, at last, to meet hers, and they are bright. “Happily, though, as much as I was, of course, instrumental to the execution, this little plan with Draco was not my own.” He raises his hand, now, tentatively, as though it a brand-new one and he is not quite sure how to use it, and before she can say another thing, do another thing, his fingers are ghosting over her cheek, as though he means to rest them there. “It was yours.”

His voice is soft, rumbling.

Hermione flinches.

Because he is not wrong.

Because he is looking at her as though he is _impressed,_ and perhaps he is, and what sort of a monster must she be, for Tom Riddle to look impressed with her?

She flinches because he is not touching her, not _quite_.

“Still,” he murmurs, too close too close too close- “Perhaps it is backward. The trap.”

“Mm,” Hermione says, not, in earnest, following his words all too carefully.

His hand is still there, still hovering, the warmth of it, and Merlin, she should brush it away, step back, confront him, because he never does anything he does not mean to; because it is distracting, and inappropriate, and because he looks like he looks and what on _earth_ is he playing at, and why _now_ -

“Perhaps Diggory was always supposed to be the one to lead my dear counterpart to Potter.”

_Perhaps –_

Perhaps.

“Oh,” she breathes, _paralysed_ , which is a terrible shame, because she badly wants to kick herself at the minute.

You Know Who had laid a trap for Harry- of course he had, and Cedric had been the bait, it was true.

But he was not the architect of the cage.

No-

 _She_ was.

“You’re saying that he knows,” she says, and for all of her fear, her guilt, her voice is utterly empty, now. “You’re saying that he is coming here.”

His hand meets her cheek, though if it is warm, if it is precisely what she had wanted, she neither notices nor cares, now.

He does not correct her.

* * *

 

Ron has never felt so inadequate as he does, now, tailing Viktor on his shitty excuse for a broom, Hagrid’s motorcycle roaring at his side and Fleur darting gracefully about the skies on her own, elegant steed- the Nimbus 2005.

Still, if Viktor’s faster than him, he can only be glad for it.

Maybe he stands a chance of getting to them in time.

Snape knew where they were.

‘Course he did, the slimy bastard, and Ron still wants to kill him, even if he did tell them, now.

Hermione’s house.

They were at Hermione’s house –

And Snape was the only one who knew, until You Know Who did.

And he _did_ -

And Professor Snape had grasped at his arm, white as the Bloody Baron and dumb as a Blast Ended Skrewt, murmured the name of the street, the one he’d been summoned to by the Darkest Fucking Wizard of All Time, and Ron had felt sick because he knew that name, had read it on immaculately handwritten envelopes delivered by Errol over the summer.

Snape is gone, now.

He says it’s to find Dumbledore.

The way Hagrid was looking at him, though, Ron wouldn’t be surprised if he was on his way to lead the massacre at You Know Who’s side, instead.

“Not so low,” Fleur is shouting to the three of them, anxious, “We cannot be seen by the Muggles.”

 _To hell with that_ , he thinks, but it is Viktor who says it, grumbling, furious:

“Fuck that.”

If Ron doesn’t kill Snape after this, he’ll at least rest easy knowing Viktor will.

“How much longer?” Ron calls, desperate, to Hagrid.

“I’d say ‘bout twenty minutes,” he yells back over his spluttering engine.

Twenty minutes.

 _Just stay alive, for twenty minutes,_ he wants to tell them, and he is shouting it in his head, still half-hopeful that some non-magic sort of magic might let Harry and Hermione read his mind, send them a message.

 _Just wake up and smell the Dark Magic and bloody run, before you can’t, anymore_.

And then,

_I’m coming._

Not that they’d be particularly comforted by that- him.

He was never the useful one in times like this.

Never clever, like her; brave, like him.

But he’s never not been there at all, and he’ll be damned if he’ll miss it, this time.

He doesn’t know an awful lot with certainty.

He likes to think it keeps him modest, open.

Still, even though he is bloody petrified and halfway in denial about this whole disastrous thing, he thinks he does know one thing for sure.

If Harry and Hermione are going to die today, he’ll eat the fucking Sorting Hat before he lets them do it without him.

* * *

 

Tom wants to kiss her.

It is _inconvenient,_ naturally, appallingly timed, and fucking distracting- this newfound cognizance of his.  

He detests her for it.

It is something to do with her face, he supposes.

How stupidly open it had been, in the morning.

How she had cried; and normally, Tom loathed tears, held them in upmost contempt, only hers were dignified, somehow: silent, and glittering like stars on her cheeks, and his fingers felt most odd, aching, as though they wanted to brush them-

How she had noticed _his_ face, when she was not supposed to have even been looking.

How she had known what it had meant, and of course she had, because she is terribly clever-

How she had been too flustered this morning to remember to do up the first three buttons of her shirt, leaving her collar, her chest, open.

She is not in love with Potter.

She looked at him as though he were absurd for asking.

Of course, he was.

If not because Lord Voldemort was, most probably, quite aware of their little engagement with the Malfoy boy, rendering matters of her affections rather trivial at present, then because was perfectly irrelevant an inquiry, and besides, Tom has no business whatsoever in caring who she is in love with.

He wants to kiss her, and that is all, and so it makes no difference.

 _Roughly_ : he thinks she would like that.

Thinks she would like it, were he to trap her hands tight between his own, hold them firm over her head as he pressed her into the wall behind her.

Thinks she would open her mouth just a little, taken by the cold of it, but she would forget it all in his lips, his tongue, would knot her fingers through his hair as she so fucking often did her own, and she would make this noise, low in her throat, like she wanted more, and, being a gentleman, he would oblige–

 _Fuck_ , he wants to kiss her, and it is ridiculous.  

Because kissing is senseless and vulgar and beneath him, and besides, he’s not ever _done_ it- not that he feels at all as though this might place him at any disadvantage. After all, the act is perfectly juvenile, and, based on the disappointed look that he’d seen laughably frequently flitting across the faces of Abraxas’s girls, even the most practiced men manage to cock it up.

Tom would be so much more _attentive._

He’s well versed enough in the art of reading her; the tense set of her shoulders, the hot flush of her cheeks.

He is touching her, now, his fingers tracing the freckles on her cheek.

He only needs to lean in, only a _fraction_ , and this ludicrous fixation of his with her perfect little mouth could be put to bed, could cease its endless bothering-

But she is saying something.

“-Malfoy. It’s the only way, don’t you think? Unless-”

She is chewing her lip, and he wishes that he would stop, because it is swollen, now, and he rather wants to do it for her, and fucking _hell_ , this is preposterous; this train of thought that he is indulging-

It has to _stop._

“Hermione,” he says, because it is unbearable, and his voice is hoarse.

She is looking at him, chest rising and falling too fast, eyes wide.

He should ask her.

Ask her, if she wants him-

Fuck, what is he thinking?

He should just _do_ it, get this absurd task over with, satiate his sickened mind and be done with it.

**_Pathetic._ **

Tom goes rigid.

He knows that voice, as he knows his own.

In the most incensing manner, it is.

 _You,_ he hisses inside his own mind, and at once, yet too bloody late, he concerns himself solely with the mental image of a cold brick wall, as Lord Voldemort had taught him, even as the same man surges into his head, a sharp throbbing pain tugging at his every thought, flitting through them like pages of a book –

**_Me._ **

Tom’s veins are searing, now, burning in their fury, and his eyes fly shut at once, and he is willing himself to numb his senses, to block him out.  

_Wall, wall, bloody boring wall-_

She is tugging at his arm, fingers warm on his skin.

 _Hermione, her back against the bricks, chest lifted, inviting, and she is lifting her finger, elegant, beckoning_ -

He grits his teeth.

“Hermione,” he says it again, and this time, it is tense, desperate, though not with wanting.

 ** _Well,_** Lord Voldemort says, and he is sneering, Tom can see it, and his face feels hot, **_isn’t this interesting._**

He is close.

 _Must_ be close – he can only see his mind if he is close, which means-

Tom is grasping his wand, now, loose between his fingers.  

**_This is my formidable opponent? This is the better Lord? Fantasising about bedding a Mudblood?_ **

He is laughing, now, cold and high, and it echoes in Tom’s head, taunting him, and he wants to kill him, because, of course, he is not wrong.

 _Where are you, then?_ Tom says sharply. _Don’t be shy, My Lord. Only a coward hides inside another’s mind._

 ** _Coward,_** Lord Voldemort muses, though there is a hard edge to it that has Tom rather unsettled. **_This from the boy who thought he’d send another to do his dirty work. But Draco Malfoy failed to retrieve your captive…tell me, how did you do it?_**

_Failed?_

Tom pauses, wills himself not to allow his surprise to announce itself too loudly in his mind, though its quite a challenge, given how thoroughly thrown he is, shaken, because this means that –

But it is _impossible._

 _I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you mean,_ he says, rather honestly, to his credit.

Lord Voldemort growls, displeased.

**_I see._ **

A beat.

Then,

**_You sent your pawn. It is only polite that I should send him back._ **

_You are here,_ Tom hisses, _close enough to see into my mind, and yet you would send me Draco Malfoy?_

 ** _Here?_** His older self says delicately. **_You mean your Muggle’s quaint little home? I think not._**

Tom freezes, now, the air suddenly unbearably hot and cold at once.

 _How?_ He demands, infuriated, and something like fear has his muscles tightening. _How are you doing this?_

 ** _All questions and no answers,_** Voldemort says coldly. **_You are not worthy of my name…Professor._**

“Tom?” Hermione is saying, a whisper, her face too close, and he thanks Merlin that his eyes are closed, still, that she cannot see, in his, how colossally fucked they are, now.

He wants to tell Lord Voldemort that he is wrong.

That he is of more value than the old, broken man; that his Followers, one by one, would see it, too.  

But the voice, the magnetic pull that had grasped upon his mind and squeezed it too roughly, is gone, now, as inconspicuous as it had come.

“What just happened?” she says, unsettled.

“Do you trust me, Hermione?” he says, calm.

“No.”

She says it easily, without malice; a fact, and nothing more.

He supposes that she would be decidedly idiotic if she did.

He opens his eyes.

As it happens, he is on his knees in the midst of the room, now, though he’s no recollection of sinking there.

She is looking at him, face marred with her concern, eyes searching.

Both of her hands are cupped over each side of his face, and they burn his skin-

He wants to fucking kiss her.

“You need to leave,” he tells her, and she will not listen to him, because she does not trust him; because she cares for Potter and Diggory so deeply that she cried for it, but he tells her anyway, and now, more than he wants to kiss her - more, even, then he wants to destroy Lord Voldemort right now for invading his mind, for being right, for being a step ahead – _better_ than him, cleverer, at least this once- Tom wants her to believe him. “You need to leave, and if you don’t, it’s quite possible you will die.”

Her brow is furrowed, now, lip quirked upward, as though he has told her a fucking joke.

She opens her mouth, to say something defiant, clever, undoubtedly, and he waits, exasperated-

The crash in the other room cuts her off.

* * *

 

Hermione is chasing after the sound, the shouting that follows, despite Tom’s cursing protests.

Her nerves are humming, frantic, petrified, because Merlin, it could be _him._

You Know Who.

And the look on Tom’s face –

He had gone awfully still, eyes scrunched closed, knees clattering to the floor harshly, and he’d not even winced, not even noticed.

Yes, it must be him, and she is running toward _him,_ and she is certainly going to die for her foolishness, but her _father-_

_Harry._

“What is this?”

It’s Cedric; voice soft, though there is an edge to it, a hard one.

Hermione rounds the hall corner, Tom just behind her, wand at the ready, and she snatches her own unceremoniously from where she had left it-

She pauses, struck.

Draco Malfoy is sat, cowering, in the middle of her living room, sobs wracking his form as he shouts manically up at Harry.

_Draco Malfoy –_

Hermione’s head is reeling, tearing itself apart to make sense of it.

He cannot apparate, she knows that; she’s seen him try it.

Somebody has _sent_ him.

“They’re coming,” Draco is saying – _sobbing_ , truly.

His eyes are glazed over, still: the Imperius Curse showing on his face.

“They’re coming to- to bring you to Him.”

She shivers.

Hermione has never seen anybody tremble quite so much as Draco is at this precise moment; his fingers, arms, back, stuttering, twitching-

“He knows what you did,” he moans. “The Imperius Curse h-hey, Potter? He’s almost impressed.”

“Imperius Curse,” Cedric says, eyes wide and flitting straight to Harry’s. “He’s under the influence of the Imperius Curse- Harry, what is he talking about? What did you do?”

He is not accusing.

He is the next most awful thing: _wounded._

Cautious; as though Harry has frightened him.

Harry’s jaw is wound tight, his gaze fixed, blank, on Malfoy.

He does not answer-

And so Cedric is moving; sliding himself from the couch, to the floor, crawling to him, to Draco.

“Draco,” he is saying, voice low, and he takes the boy’s hand. “Draco, can you hear me?”

“Diggory,” Malfoy splutters, and his eyes, clouded as they are, seem to land in earnest on Cedric’s for a moment. “You’re alive-you’re-I wanted to warn you, you know.”

“I know you did. Dobby told me,” Cedric says, gently, so _gently,_ and Hermione does not understand it-

She remembers what Draco said; that he knew where Cedric was imprisoned.

She had not imagined that perhaps, it was not because he worked alongside his father to keep him there.

“Harry,” Cedric shakes his head, brows pulled in, and on his narrow face, bruised as it is, it is rather heartbreaking to behold. “What did you do?”

“I-” Harry’s voice catches in his throat.

His eyes dart, helpless, to Hermione.

“It was for you,” he says hoarsely. “It was only for you.”

Cedric lets out a sound halfway between a sob and a sharp inhale.

He looks as though he has been struck, hard, across the face-

As though it was Harry who slapped him.

“That isn’t you,” he says, quietly. “This isn’t-”

“Oh, heavens,” Hermione’s father says loudly, cutting Cedric off, his entrance punctuated by hasty footsteps, the setting down of his crossword puzzle. “Another friend? Oh, dear-”

He moves toward Malfoy, a hand bracing to grasp the boy’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch him,” Hermione says cuttingly. “Get out of the house, dad.”  

“Sorry, dear?” her father says, befuddled, and, graciously, giving her the benefit of the doubt, but there is no time for her chest to tug painfully at his confusion, no time to relieve it.

“Go. It’s best you don’t see any of this. Go to Nana’s, I’ll meet you there. Make sure mum does, too. She can’t come home.”

She is lying, of course.

If You Know Who is coming, she does not expect to meet him anywhere.

“ _Hermione_ ,” he says, appalled. “What on earth is this?”

She cannot _look_ at him.

She would surely cry if she did, and she simply does not have the luxury that more time, more relaxed circumstances, would afford.

“You won’t understand,” she says, bitter, but not at him, never him. “But you have to go, dad. It’s not safe.”

“Not safe?”

Her father is a smart man, and for that, she is grateful.

He has also shown a remarkable capacity to suspend his disbelief, since her letter from Hogwarts arrived on her eleventh birthday, and for that, she is grateful, too.

He studies her: _understands._

“This is to do with He Who Must Not Be Named,” he says, and it is not a question. “Hermione, I’ll not leave you alone. Any of you- you’re _kids_.”

His eyes are wide, flitting from her, to Harry, to Cedric on the couch; Draco on the floor.

“And you’re dead,” Tom says shortly.

Her father looks at him, injured at the bluntness.

“You’re dead if you stay, Mr Granger,” he says again. “He Who Must Not Be Named does not like Muggles, however – _misguided_ he might be, to write you off without a fair hearing. You ought to leave, to be sure. But you ought to take your daughter with you.”

She whirls on him, incredulous at once.

“And leave Harry alone, with you? With _You Know Who_?”

“Potter _owes_ me,” Tom says fiercely, and he holds his wrist into the light, the jagged scar glinting in confirmation. “Or have you forgotten?”

Hermione swallows, wishes that the room would stop spinning; that her ears would cease their shrill humming.

“Harry,” Cedric says again, louder, this time. “Harry, what is he talking about? What on earth is going on?”

“You were gone,” Harry murmurs, uselessly.  

He is looking at Draco, still, with the most curious look on his face: like the scientist from the story, looking down at the monster that he has constructed with a distant sort of sorrow.

She cannot bear to see it.

“Dad,” she says, turning her attentions back to him, frantic. “Dad, please.”

“Do you think,” Draco says, voice haunted, not his own, “that the Dark Lord will not find him anyway? Find what he knows?”

“ _No.”_

No no no no no no-

Because he is _right_.

Because Hermione never should have come here, never should have brought Tom Riddle here-

Her father has seen them now, and that makes him valuable to a torturer.

That gives him a reason to look for her, after, if she survives at all-

To ask questions, poke his nose where You Know Who thinks it doesn’t belong.

Walter Granger has a target on his back, now, because she was reckless enough, naïve enough-

She is going to be sick.

She has to _fix it_ , has to think, and what is the use of thinking all the time, being clever all the time, if she’s incapable of formulating an intelligent thought now that she needs one, now that her father’s life depends on one?

What is the use of the hours she’s spent remembering, word for word, the particulars of every lesson, only to forget-

But there it is, then.

There it is, and thank Merlin and curse him all at once, because she’s got it, but it is dreadful, and he will never, ever forgive her for it.

Her fingers quiver around her wand even as she raises it, trains it on him.

Her dad.

Her too lovely, too earnest father, in his too big jumper and too wide spectacles, looking at her as though he doesn’t recognise her in the slightest.

Her chest tightens –

_Good._

His life may well depend on it.

But, for good measure, she must be sure.

“Sweetheart?” he says, apprehensive.

His hands are up, as though it is a gun that she has, pointed squarely at him.

“Hermione?” Harry says, uncertain.

Cedric, too, is bewildered, half-raised between Draco and her father, as though he means to shield him from her.

 _Tom,_ though –

He understands.

Probably, he thought it before she did.

He only stands at her side; offers her a single nod, remarkably gentle.

“Dad.” She manages to say it before the tears spill, hot and prickling and begging her not to do it, pleading, but she has to- “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Somebody – she is not quite sure who – says her name.

She closes her eyes, reaches for the magic, bristling at her fingertips.

_You will forget Harry Potter._

_You will forget Tom Smith._

_You will forget Cedric Diggory._

_You will forget all about He Who Must Not Be Named- about Hogwarts and magic._

_You will forget about me._

It is ready.

She is shaking – _she_ is not ready.

She wants to look at him again, just once, just for a moment-

There is a hand at her wrist, now.

Warm, and she tenses, should strike it away, only-

They are not trying to stop her.

“Quickly,” Tom murmurs, soft in her ear. “Like a band-aid.”

 _Like a band-aid,_ he said, and it is terribly disarming, such a mundane thing, coming from _him_ -

She whimpers.

“I can’t do it for you,” he says, now. “But- I can say it with you, if you want me to.”

“Say what?” Harry is saying, though he sounds awfully far away. “What’s going on, Hermione?”

“I want you to,” she says, and it is scarcely a whisper, but he hears her, she knows that he does.

“On three, then.”

“Alright.”

“One,” it starts, he starts, and he does not say it too slowly, too quickly, and yet still, it comes too soon, “two- three.”

They say it, now.

They say it, and her voice is uneven but his is not.

“ _Obliviate._ ”

* * *

 

Walter Granger has left the house.

Hermione has not moved.

Her wand-arm is outstretched, still, tears staining her face like rain streaked down a window.

Cedric and Harry are fighting, low voices heated, pained, and she is glad that she cannot hear what they are saying.

Draco is silent, now, curled upon her floor and staring at the ceiling with a vacant sort of expression.

Cedric comes to him, every few minutes: holds his hand.

Tom is closing his eyes, looks to be concentrating very hard on something very important.

His wand never leaves his hand.

* * *

 

They tear the front door down, when they arrive.

The windows shatter, tremble.

She does not move.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!
> 
> Long time no see, and for that I profusely apologise! I hope you are all having a wonderful 2019 thus far, and, if you've made it all the way down here, thank you so much for bearing with this story as it trudges along. As ever with me, I'm afraid, this was incredibly hastily written, so apologies for the typos that I am positive are lurking between the paragraphs here. 
> 
> One point of clarification: Voldemort has been reading Harry and Tom's thoughts despite the distance, and was aware of their plan to use Draco to rescue Cedric. However, he did not account for Dobby. Next chapter will show how this threw something of a small spanner in the works, with some LV/Malfoy Manor POV. Next chapter will also feature a bit of a time-jump, which I am more than a little excited about!! In other news, I may or may not have started writing a Peter Pan AU featuring Riddle as a decidedly dark Pan lol, so if anyone's keen, that should be up soon-ish.
> 
> I can't tell you how much your support means to me, and how much I genuinely love to hear your thoughts, feelings and theories, so please do keep them coming, if you feel minded and have the time! 
> 
> Until next time, 
> 
> Take care!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Time: Cedric's appearance at the Granger house was rendered terribly bittersweet at Tom's realisation that Lord Voldemort can read his thoughts, even despite the distance. Meanwhile, Ron, Fleur, Krum, and Hagrid are flying to meet them to warn them of Voldemort's trap. Draco Malfoy, still under the influence of Imperio, but this time, Voldemort's, returned to the Granger house with a message, a warning, and Cedric was stunned to learn of Harry's own use of the Imperius Curse. Desperate to keep her family safe, Hermione erased her father's memories and sent him away, moments before the door crashed open. 
> 
> PSA: CONSIDER THIS A TEASER MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE. Apologies to disappoint, guys, but this is not an Update Update. I just figured it made sense to isolate this little snippet of the near future, first, before tracing back and revealing what's happened in between to lead us to this point.

* * *

 

_Four Weeks Later._

* * *

 

“ _Stupefy_ ,” Harry shouts, and the masked man caves in, crumbles to the earthy forest ground with a groan, and he breathes out, relieved, though he has his wand, still –

 “ _Expelliarmus.”_

It’s Hermione, quick to notice the same.

Harry grins, and, though her hair is untamed, tangled in her eyes, her lip curls up, eyes bright as they meet his own-  

But there is someone behind her.

 “Behind,” he says, and Hermione straightens abruptly, though she does not turn around, even as the low growl starts to say it, _avada-_

But she is faster.

Hermione flicks her wand over her shoulder, mutter off a harsh _reducto_ under her breath.

There is a dull thud, accompanied, as normal, by a colourful assortment of distinctly Muggle curses.

Now it is Harry’s turn to cast e _xpelliarmus._

The man’s wand stings his open palm, and he fastens his fist around it, teeth grit, hard, and he trains the blubbering mess of a Death Eater’s own weapon at him.

“ _Stupefy._ ”

With a lingering wheeze, he falls silent.

A low whistle sounds from amongst the tall trees concealing the rest of the forest from them.

 “Well,” Tom says, head leaning to one side like a cat as he approaches, “not unimpressive.”

“Not unimpressive?” Harry snorts, gesturing to the forest floor, peppered with fallen men and women in those dreadful masks, their limbs jutting out awkwardly where he and Hermione have sent them. “Six Death Eaters in- how many minutes, Hermione?”

He turns, brows lifted, to her where she crouches, studiously polishing off the modest collection of wands gathered in her hand on the edge of her jumper.

“Six,” she says shortly, not pausing to dignify either one of them with a glance.  

“Six Death Eaters in six minutes,” Harry repeats breezily, spinning on his heels toward Riddle with a flourish of his arm. “And that’s all you have to say?”

“Six Death Eaters who are hardly worthy of the title, evidently,” Tom sniffs, surveying Voldemort’s unconscious servants.

His shoe – which, remarkably, appears _polished_ despite the circumstances- prods at the nearest of them; a ragged-looking man with the whitest skin Harry’s seen.

“Gracious,” he says, nose crinkled in distaste. “He’s sent me a walking skeleton. Is he _trying_ to insult me?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry says reasonably. “I mean, he’s trying to _kill_ you, isn’t he?”

“He’s trying to kill _you_ , Chosen One,” Tom corrects him mildly, still perfectly fixated on the pitiful figure beneath his foot. “He isn’t suicidal.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Harry grins. “I mean, aren’t _you_?”

Riddle glances upward, brows drawn in over his eyes, though his mouth lifts, however briefly, giving his amusement away.

“I want to kill the delusional old man who thinks that he can pass for Lord Voldemort,” he says. “There is nothing remotely suicidal about it. It’s self preservation.”

“ _Resurrection_ is more like it.”

Hermione, though still, she is only half paying attention.

The wands are stowed into the front pocket of her jeans now, arms folded across her chest as she studies the scene around them, frowning, as though she is looking for something, until her eyes go wide.

“ _Expelliarmus,”_ she snaps, sudden, rough, and Harry whirls around in time to catch a woman wrapped in black lace lying amongst the others with her masks’ silver glinting from where it is sprawled a meter of so from her, hair wild enough to rival her own.

She is snarling, hand clawing after her wand even as it slices through the air, obliging Hermione’s spell.

“ _Crucio,”_ the woman snaps, uselessly, anyway, even as Hermione catches it, trains it squarely between her eyes.

 “I’m afraid you need a wand to do that,” Hermione says, studying her. “Pretending to be stunned,” she mutters, clinical. “Clever, though rather predictable. And you were too impatient for it to work properly. Do you know this one, Tom?”

At that, the woman jerks her head, showing them the full effect of peculiarly large eyes framed by thin, angry brows, and a mouth playing host to remarkably pointed teeth.

“ _Bitch_ ,” she hisses, leaning on her elbows and squirming in her haste to stand –

With a sharp jerk, Hermione’s knee meets the unkempt witch clean in the face.

The sound of it almost makes Harry wince, even as her head lulls, dead-like, against the earth.

“Mudblood, actually,” Hermione says, to nobody in particular and with a blank face that stings to look at, and so Harry looks away.

 _Tom,_ though-

Tom is watching her with hooded eyes, a twisted mouth, like he’s hungry.

 “Quite right,” he murmurs. “And no, I don’t know her.” He sinks to his knees, now, surveying the unconscious woman with carefully narrowed eyes. “I suspect she may be one of those escaped from Azkaban.”

 “You were helpful,” Hermione says, scornful, if only a little, as she gestures to the wider clearing littered with stunned figures, some with their distinctly off-putting masks still on.

Tom raises both his hands, disarming.

“It would have been terribly rude of me to interrupt. It seemed that you were rather enjoying yourselves.”

He actually _winks,_ now-

Not at her, but Harry, and, because it might be true, and because it makes his stomach churn its discomfort, he looks at his shoes, does not answer.

“Hardly,” Hermione says impatiently. “But that doesn’t _matter_ – Tom, tell me you were right. Tell me you have it.”

Harry clears his throat, brows high as he folds his arms at Tom, because fuck, he’d better.

After the Crystal Cave, the boys who went in, the ones who came out and the ones who fucking _didn’t,_ that fucking note from somebody called R.A.B, somebody better than Harry, braver, he’d better fucking have it now.  

Slow, _lazy_ , as though he has far more time than he can really afford to spare, Riddle draws a great, gold locket, adorned with a serpent of glittering emerald, from under the collar of the white button-up shirt he’s not ditched since he was Professor Riddle, though now, the sleeves are rolled roughly at his elbows, the top buttons skewed open.

Harry swallows, hard, transfixed.

Because that thing, that bulky, gaudy, ridiculous _thing,_ hurts his head, his scar.

_Good._

That means it’s one of them.

Means this whole nuisance wasn’t for nothing.

Means the simmering burn of Tom’s vow on his wrist might cease sooner, rather than later.

“You know that you could have just said yes,” Hermione murmurs, though when Harry tears his eyes from it, he finds her as preoccupied, mesmerised, as he.

“You know you would only demand to see it for yourself anyway,” Tom says offhandedly, and she nearly smiles because, of course, he is right. “Do you like it? It was Slytherin’s, you know.”

His tongue traces over his lower lip. Where they stare, enchanted, by the locket, he stares only at _her_.

“Tell me, when will you learn to trust me, Hermione Granger?”

Harry blinks away, now.

Because his voice is soft and his eyes are darker than normal.

Because he knows a private moment when he sees one.

Still, he does not miss it when she leans forward, something twisting her mouth- not a smile.

“Never.”

A whisper, scarcely more, but Tom shudders, because, Harry thinks, it is the promise she makes him, over again.

She presses her lips to his cheek, once.

Just once-

Before his mouth.

* * *

 

Tom breathes into it, now: _her_ mouth, _her_ kiss, and his hands are in her hair, firm, not ungentle, pulling her closer, and there is this sound, guttural, low in his throat, and Harry cannot drop his gaze hastily enough, and his cheeks are red and he wants to puke and _for fuck’s sake_ -

“Really, guys?” he says, louder than he had planned, but fuck it, they break apart, and for that, he is supremely grateful. “ _Again_? Not like we’ve got the Darkest Wizard of all time on our tail or anything. Take your time.”

“Thank you for that rather flattering assessment, Potter.”

“Wasn’t talking ‘bout you,” Harry says.

“Harry’s right,” Hermione says, only slightly flushed in the cheeks as she pulls away from him. “We can’t afford to waste any time. You said he might – sense it, when we find them?”

Sense it.

 _That’s_ how he put it to her, then.

“He might,” Tom says, guarded, and not at all minded to meet Harry’s eyes.

Harry nearly snorts.

“If by ‘sense’ you mean ‘know exactly where we are and how we found it’,” he mutters, bitter.

Hermione furrows her brows, perplexed.

“What does _that_ mean?”

Tom shoots Harry a look of undiluted venom.

“Nothing,” he says curtly. “There is no need to be dramatic, Potter.”

Harry simply ogles at him, now.

How Tom plans on keeping the brightest witch he’s ever met happily oblivious to the painful fact that Voldemort can read his fucking mind whenever he fancies, Harry has no idea.

Still, Harry has no intention to attempt the same.

“It’s my connection with him,” he says, only half lying. “My scar, ‘member? I think it works both ways.”

Hermione frowns.

“I always did wonder about that,” she mutters, more to herself than to them. “Your dreams, about the graveyard, Harry- I wondered if You Know Who might get the same. Or, perhaps, if he planted them in your mind on purpose? It would be glib, of course-”

“But Voldemort’s the personification of glib,” Harry finishes grimly. “If we’re using ‘personification’ loosely, that is.”

“Watch it,” Tom says, not, it seems, remotely amused.

“In any case,” Hermione says, before Harry can consider whether or not it’s worth it to explain to Tom just how fucking reptilian his counterpart is, “we have to get a move on- check in with Crouch.”

She turns, now, to the scattered bodies, gestures to the woman in black.

“She was cleverer than the rest of them. Angrier, as well. I think  that we should bring her with us,” she says. “You said that she might be from Azkaban. We should find out what she knows about the other escaped prisoners. If we can turn her to your side-”

 “If she were important to Him he would’ve mentioned her to me,” Tom sniffs. “I’ve no interest in converting his juvenile lackies. He can keep the dregs, thank you ever so.”

Hermione arches her brows, exasperated.

“You need _numbers,_ Tom. You really can’t afford to be elitist when you’re up against-”

“The greatest wizard of all time?” Tom finishes smoothly. “On the contrary, Hermione, I think elitism has never been more appropriate than it is in this instance.”

“I was going to say a murderous lunatic,” Hermione says bluntly. “Everybody is afraid of him, Tom, and so he has a hold over e _verybody_ , do you understand that?”

“Understand it? Hermione, I _designed_ it.”

He is touching her hair, now. Only slightly, the tips of his fingers skirting it, tucking it behind her ear and drawing it out again in a redundant pattern, though he does not seem to be doing it on purpose. If he was anybody but Tom fucking Riddle, Harry supposes it might be endearing.

“But I am entirely unconcerned with _everybody_. Everybody doesn’t scare me.” His eyes are at once sharp and soft, yet somehow, she meets them with her own, unflinching. “Give me his _best_ \- give me Fenir Greyback, give me Barty Crouch Junior, give me the giants, the centaurs- give me the fucking Boy Who Lived, and give me Hermione Granger, and darling, _he_ is the one who should be afraid.”

Hermione’s inhale is staggered, uneven.

The way she is looking at him-

Her eyes are too wide, mouth parted, chest rising and falling too fast.

She is looking at him like Harry was that necklace; like he is fascinating and dangerous and beautiful and the thing, the _one thing_ , that can free her from this awful mess all at once, and really, Harry should be used to it by now- that look on her face, but it sits, uneasy, at his chest, still, because he understands it, cannot blame her for it, cannot recognise her, and yet she is still so Hermione Granger, more even, perhaps, than she ever has been.

Because he knows that he is different, too, worse, somehow, and he knows why, but he cannot think about it, cannot think about _him_ , because if he does-

Fuck.

“We’re taking her with us,” Hermione says, soft, but it is enough to distract him.

If it is a question, Tom does not answer.

Still, the ropes that appear out of nothing, wind themselves tight around the wild woman’s wrists where she lies, tells him that, not for the first time, Hermione Granger’s wish is Tom Riddle’s command.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again friends! 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for your lovely responses to the last update - you guys are genuinely the reason this story's heart is still beating aha. 
> 
> I apologise for the lack of answers in this little snippet- though rest assured, they are coming, and all will be addressed, from why tf the locket wasn't with Umbridge (tbh just me altering canon for the convenience of the plot), to what happened in the Crystal Cave, to what precisely it meant when Harry said 'again'. Please do let me know what you thought/felt/suspect happened in the four weeks between the last chapter, and this teaser! 
> 
> For the first time in a while I actually find myself with a bit of free time, so the next proper update should not be too far off, though my priority may be the Peter Pan AU! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, I truly appreciate every person who dignifies this with their time xx


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